£^-«*<K«ti&M# 


WALKED  INARDE 


BRA 
0FTH1 


I  WALKED 
IN  ARDEN 


NEW  BORZOI  NOVELS 
SPRING,  1922 

Wanderers 

Knut  Hamsun 
Men  of  Affairs 

Roland  Pertwee 
The  Fair  Rewards 

Thomas  Beer 
I  Walked  in  Arden 

Jack  Crawford 
Guest  the  One-Eyed 

Gunnar  Gunnarsson 
The  Longest  Journey 

E.  M.  Forster 
Cytherea 

Joseph  Hergesheimer 
Explorers  of  the  Dawn 

Mazo  de  la  Roche 
The  White  Kami 

Edward  Alden  Jewell 


I  WALKED  IN  ARDEN 


JACK  CRAWFORD 


new  york  ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF  mcmxxii 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 

ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  Ino. 

Published,  April,  1923 


Set  up,  electrotyped,  and  printed  by  the  Vail-Ballou  Co.,  Binghamton,  N.  F. 
Paper  supplied  by  Perkins-Goodwin  Co.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 
Bound  by  the  H.  Wolff  Estate,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

MANUFACTURED     IN     THE     UNITED     STATES     OF    AMERICA 


961 

C8987 

MATOL 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I  I  Begin  at  the  Beginning,  3 

II  I  Set  Out  Along  a  New  Trail,  11 

III  I  Camp  in  the  Desert,  22 

IV  I  Have  My  First  Encounter  with  Prospero,  40 
V  I  Enter  Deep  Harbor  Society,  61 

VI  I  Go  for  a  Ride  on  Satan,  33 

VII  I  Have  the  First  Great  Adventure,  98 

VIU  I  Play  a  Part  in  a  Melodrama,  116 

IX  I  Come  Face  to  Face  with  the  Future,  136 

X  We  Share  Our  First  Christmas,  160 

XI  We  Seek  and  Obtain  Consent,  173 

XII  We  Pass  an  Ordeal  and  Sail  for  Home,  192 

XIII  We  Arrive  and  Look  Forward  to  Another  Arrival, 

214 

XIV  We  Find  New  Life  and  New  Love,  228 
XV    We  Begin  to  Live,  249 

XVI    We  Hear  Sentence  Pronounced,  265 
XVII    We  Stand  at  the  Cross-Roads,  284 
Epilogue.    Christmas,  1918,  294 


M794968 


I  WALKED 
IN  ARDEN 


Chapter  One 
i  begin  at  the  beginning 

I  HARDLY  know  where  to  begin,  because,  as  I  grow  older,  I 
find  it  more  and  more  difficult  to  know  what  really  is  the 
beginning  of  anything.  Causes  are  all  mixed  up,  and 
things  that  seem  afterwards  to  have  a  bearing  were  not  at  the 
time  important  enough  to  be  noted.  And  it  is  probably  ten  to 
one  that  some  factors  have  been  completely  forgotten.  I  sup- 
pose nobody  can  tell  all  of  what  happened  or  tell  any  of  it 
with  absolute  accuracy.  At  least,  as  I  look  on  at  life,  any  at- 
tempt to  record  it  on  paper  seems  hopeless.  Things  hap- 
pen, you  don't  know  why — and  you  try  to  use  your  judg- 
ment while  they  are  happening,  but  even  if  you  are  very 
clever,  you  don't  know  whether  your  judgment  was  the  best 
judgment.  All  you  can  observe  is  how  things  end — when 
they  do  end. 

And  yet  I  know  that  character — whatever  that  is — prob- 
ably is  more  important  than  circumstances.  There's  an  old 
vulgar  song,  something  about,  "It  isn't  what  you  do,  it's  how 
you  take  things."  These  aren't  the  words,  but  that  is  the  idea. 
It's  the  same  thing  that  my  father  used  to  say  to  me:  "Play 
fair,  Ted — and  then  if  you  lose,  why,  you  must  grin  and  bear 
it."  I  know  this  isn't  a  novel  philosophy;  it  is  a  useful  one. 
Original  ideas  are  not  necessarily  helpful.  An  honest  plat- 
itude has  better  sticking  powers. 

I  must  try  to  tell  a  little  about  the  beginning.  My  name  is 
Edward  Jevons  and  I  was  born  in  New  York  City,  but  I  have 
never  had  the  pleasure  of  living  in  what,  for  lack  of  a  better 
term,  I  shall  call  my  native  town.  At  the  age  of  six,  when 
Her  Majesty  Queen  Victoria  was  seated  upon  the  comfortable 

3 


4  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

throne  of  those  days,  I  was  taken  by  my  father  and  mother  to 
live  in  England.  From  the  age  of  six  to  the  age  of  eighteen  I 
was  a  cockney  and  grew  up  in  London.  In  all  that  time 
my  eyes  did  not  see  America. 

I  have  nothing  but  pleasant  memories  of  this  childhood  in 
London.  We  were  not  a  fashionable  family;  we  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  wealthy  Anglo-American  set  in  London;  but  we  had 
a  comfortable  house  out  Hampstead  way,  and,  as  the  saying 
is,  "did  ourselves  rather  well."  We  also  had  a  little  villa  in 
the  country,  near  a  golf-course,  in  Hertfordshire.  The  coun- 
try place  we  rented  for  the  summers. 

My  father  was  a  business  man,  but  he  had  tried  his  hand, 
in  earlier  life,  at  writing — I  believe  with  some  success. 
Business  was  more  profitable  than  writing — and  he  abandoned 
the  latter.  He  kept  up,  however,  many  of  his  literary  friend- 
ships, and  our  house  was  frequented  by  writers  of  more  or  less 
fame  and  a  few  theatre  people.  I  thus  became  early  infected 
with  a  desire  to  write — a  wish  which  my  father  encouraged. 
He  took  a  good  deal  of  pains  over  training  me  in  observation 
and  in  arousing  in  me  what  he  called,  "a  curiosity  about  life" 
— without  which,  he  said,  no  one  could  write  anything  worth 
while.  In  the  evenings  I  would  bring  him  my  day's  work  and 
he  would  discuss  it  seriously  with  me  over  a  pipe. 

My  early  recollections  of  my  mother  are  more  vague.  She 
was  a  woman  of  strong  will  who  rather  frightened  me  with  her 
direct  ways  of  getting  what  she  wanted.  Instead  of  waiting  to 
see  what  would  happen,  she  took  a  hand  in  making  things  hap- 
pen to  suit  her.  I  could  never  quite  approve  the  energy  she 
put  into  having  her  own  way.  My  way  never  seemed  to  me 
important  enough  to  make  a  special  fuss  over  getting  it. 
One  could  always  think  to  please  one's  self — which  was  a  hap- 
pier solution  than  to  try  to  do  the  impossible.  I  was  always 
shy  in  my  mother's  presence.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  had  a 
ferocious  devotion  to  me  that  was  terrifying.  I  can  remem- 
ber being  scolded  and  wept  over  for  my  coldness.  It  wasn't 
that;  I  couldn't  explain  things.     I  don't  know  whether  my  fa- 


THE   BEGINNING  5 

ther  understood  me — sometimes  I  thought  he  did  and  at  other 
times  I  was  certain  he  did  not.     I  was  an  only  son. 

My  sister,  Frances,  was  much  younger.  I  liked  her  very 
much — except  when  she  interfered  with  the  things  in  my 
room  (I  am  speaking  now  as  I  remember  her  when  a  child), 
and  then  we  quarrelled  gorgeously.  My  mother  always  took 
my  part,  and  poor  Frances  would  end  in  tears.  Secretly  I  en- 
joyed Frances'  obvious  hero-worship  and  the  fact  that  I  could 
make  her  cry.  I  was  skilled  in  subtle  ways  of  bullying  her — 
teasing  is  perhaps  a  better  word.  Frances  is  one  of  the  few 
persons  who  has  ever  taken  me  seriously.  As  a  boy  I  took 
advantage  of  this  to  harrow  her  feelings.  She  was  not,  how* 
ever,  an  important  part  of  my  life,  because  of  the  difference 
in  our  ages. 

My  education  was  rather  a  haphazard  affair.  An  amiable 
young  man  was  my  tutor,  and  he  did  his  best  to  make  me  be- 
lieve arithmetic  a  useful  branch  of  knowledge.  He  did  not  con- 
vince me.  I  tolerated  his  efforts  and  got  along  fairly  well.  I 
read  a  great  deal  for  myself;  there  were  always  plenty  of  new 
books  in  the  house,  and  my  father's  library  of  standard  works 
was  larger  than  even  an  industrious  reader  could  get  through. 
I  absorbed  a  good  deal  of  literary  background  without  being 
aware  I  was  storing  up  anything.  Like  other  boys,  I  read  for 
amusement — only  it  happened  that  I  was  amused  by  a  fairly 
wide  range  of  authors.  I  knew  few  children  my  own  age  and 
was  not  particularly  interested  in  those  I  did  know.  They  did 
not  read  much. 

It  was  at  the  beginning  of  my  eighteenth  year  that  my  father 
called  me  into  his  study  one  night  and  informed  me  that  he 
planned  sending  me  to  America  to  college.  The  announce- 
ment was  a  great  surprise  to  me,  for  I  was  happy  where  I  was, 
and  I  could  remember  little  about  America. 

There  was  another  surprise  in  my  father's  proposal.  It 
appeared  that  I  was  to  be  trained  as  a  manufacturing  chemist. 
My  father  pointed  out  that  he  needed  an  expert  chemist  in  the 
future  development  of  his  business  and  had  decided  to  make 


6  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

me  that  man.  I  remember  I  protested,  pointing  out  to  him  my 
ambition  to  become  a  writer.  My  protest  was  overruled.  My 
father  said  something  about  bread  and  butter  coming  first  and 
added  that  chemistry  need  not  keep  me  from  writing. 

I  went  to  America  and  spent  four  years  at  a  small  college  in 
one  of  the  Eastern  States — Hilltown  University,  it  was  called. 
They  were  not  wholly  happy  years,  for  I  found  myself  in  the 
awkward  predicament  of  being,  because  of  my  foreign  upbring- 
ing, a  stranger  among  my  classmates.  I  did  not  make  friends 
easily,  but  on  the  whole,  I  got  through  creditably.  Summer 
holidays  during  these  four  years  I  spent  in  England  with  the 
family. 

I  was  graduated  and  ready  to  join  my  father  in  his  London 
business.  For  a  year  I  worked  away  at  the  practical  side  of 
chemistry,  and  to  my  inward  astonishment,  my  work  ap- 
peared to  give  satisfaction.  Indeed,  I  was  entrusted  more 
and  more  with  tasks  of  responsibility  and,  according  to  re- 
ports, acquitted  myself  well.  I  could  never  quite  believe  that 
I  was  really  a  chemist.  Sometimes  I  would  sit,  in  the 
evening,  before  my  toy  theatre  and,  while  in  the  act  of  com- 
posing a  play  with  its  doubtful  aid,  wonder  if  I  were  the  per- 
son who  went  to  the  laboratory  every  morning  and  worked  at 
chemistry.  My  writing  made  little  progress;  the  curtain  of 
my  toy  theatre  was  more  often  down  than  up,  because,  as  my 
Work  increased  in  difficulty,  chemistry  claimed  more  and 
more  of  my  time. 

I  think  Sims,  my  mother's  maid  and  formerly  my  old  nurse, 
understood  how  I  felt. 

"The  dust  do  be  gettin'  that  thick  on  some  of  your  books, 
Master  Ted.  You'll  'ave  to  let  me  'ave  a  go  at  them  one  of 
these  days." 

Sims's  expressions  of  sympathy  were  always  veiled  in  house- 
hold threats.  And  then  there  was  Chitty,  an  ex-soldier  and 
one-time  officer's  batman,  who  washed  apparatus  for  me  in 
the  laboratory.  To  Chitty  the  processes  of  chemistry  were  akin 
to  mediaeval  incantations,  and  it  was  clear  that  he  regarded 
me  as  out  of  my  element  in  having  anything  to  do  with  them. 


THE   BEGINNING  7 

When  we — my  father  and  I,  that  is — went  away  week-ends 
to  play  golf,  Chitty  left  the  laboratory  and  accompanied  us  in 
the  capacity  of  handy  man  valet.  He  had  a  large  family 
and  definite  views  about  the  fitness  of  things.  A  gentleman 
following  a  chemical  career  he  considered  as  at  variance  with 
the  natural  order. 

"It  isn't  as  if  you  was  born,  sir,  to  earning  a  living,"  he 
confided  to  me  one  afternoon  when  I  had  cursed  an  unsuccess- 
ful experiment.  (It  was  an  amiable  weakness  of  Chitty's 
to  believe  that  no  one  that  he  called  a  "gentleman"  was  under 
any  actual  necessity  of  working.)  "Why  don't  you  chuck 
it,  sir,  for  today  and  come  out  and  'ave  a  round  of  golf?" 

Possibly  his  advice  was  not  always  disinterested,  but  I  be- 
lieve it  was.  Next  to  my  sister's,  Chitty's  hero-worship  of 
me  was  the  most  profound  I  have  known.  In  fact,  as  I 
think  things  over,  these  are  the  only  two  to  whom  I  was  ever  a 
hero.  Many  have  liked  me;  they  had  faith  in  me.  But  I  am 
wandering,  as  usual. 

It  was  late  in  June  of  my  twenty-third  year,  and  exactly 
twelve  months  after  my  graduation  into  the  world  of  chem- 
istry, that  my  father  called  me  into  his  study,  one  morning  as 
I  was  about  to  leave  for  the  laboratory. 

"Sit  down,  Ted,"  he  said.     "I've  got  some  news  for  you." 

I  sat  down  hopefully,  wondering  if  at  last  he  had  rec- 
ognized that  I  was  very  unhappy  over  my  chemistry. 
"Possibly,"  I  thought,  "I  shall  be  relieved  and  allowed  to  take 
up  writing." 

"What  do  you  say  to  a  run  over  to  New  York  to  look  at 
some  new  business  that  has  cropped  up  there?  I'm  thinking 
of  sailing  Saturday  and  taking  you  with  me." 

I  was  disappointed,  but  there  seemed  nothing  alarming  in 
the  suggestion,  so  I  readily  agreed. 

My  mother  and  sister  saw  us  off  at  Euston,  with  old  Sims 
curtseying  in  the  background  and  Chitty  saluting  in  military 
fashion. 

On  the  way  over  my  father  walked  the  decks  many  hours 
with  me  and  told  me  of  all  his  business  hopes  and  fears.     He 


8  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

had  got  together  all  his  available  capital  and  was  contem- 
plating investing  it  in  an  American  plant.  The  company  was 
to  be  organized  in  London,  with  an  American  branch,  and  he 
was  looking  forward  to  putting  me,  ultimately,  at  the  head  of 
the  whole  thing.  Meanwhile  the  new  company  had  to  be  built 
up  and  to  fight  its  own  way  against  competition.  We  were 
to  consider,  in  New  York,  what  he  regarded  as  a  favourable 
offer  of  a  factory  which  had  been  made  him. 

Although  I  had  been  in  and  out  of  New  York  many  times 
while  an  undergraduate  at  Hilltown,  I  could  never  get  over 
a  feeling  of  strange  awe  at  its  noise  and  confusion.  In  Lon- 
don I  was  at  home;  in  New  York  I  felt  alien  and  wondered 
how  anybody  could  feel  as  if  he  belonged  there.  "Luckily," 
I  thought,  as  we  rode  down-town  on  the  elevated,  "we  shan't 
be  here  long."  I  had  a  return  steamer  ticket  for  Liverpool 
in  an  inside  pocket.  It  was  a  question  of  closing  a  business 
transaction  and  returning. 

At  the  office  where  we  went,  I  was  introduced  to  a  Mr. 
Knowlton,  our  electrical  engineer,  who,  my  father  told  me, 
was  to  be  our  American  manager.  He  was  a  shrewd  looking 
man  in  the  early  thirties — possibly  the  late  thirties,  I  couldn't 
be  certain — with  crow's  feet  about  the  eyes  and  a  disconcerting 
grin.  I  saw  him  look  at  me  sharply  out  of  the  corners  of  his 
eyes. 

The  lawyers  proclaimed  the  situation  satisfactory  and  I 
heard  Knowlton  give  my  father  his  technical  opinion  con- 
cerning the  merits  of  the  Deep  Harbor  Manufacturing  Com- 
pany, which  was  the  name  of  the  property  we  had  come  to 
see  about.  The  factory  was  situated  at  Deep  Harbor,  a 
thriving  factory  town  on  one  of  the  Great  Lakes.  On  the 
strength  of  the  two  reports  my  father  signed  the  papers,  and 
the  Deep  Harbor  Manufacturing  Company  became  ours. 

We  were  about  to  leave,  when  Knowlton  turned  to  my 
father  and  said:  "By  the  way,  Mr.  Jevons,  I  should  like  your 
authority,  before  you  go,  to  employ  a  young  research  chemist 


THE   BEGINNING  9 

for  our  laboratory  out  there  at  the  plant.  Some  one  capable 
of  original  work." 

As  Knowlton  uttered  these  words  a  panic  seized  me.  I 
knew  before  my  father  spoke  what  he  was  going  to  suggest. 

"What  about  letting  you  have  my  son  here?"  I  heard  my 
father  say.  I  could  feel  Knowlton  looking  me  over,  and  I 
prayed  for  an  unfavourable  verdict. 

"Have  you  had  much  experience  in  research  work?" 
Knowlton  levelled  at  me. 

"Only  a  year,"  I  faltered,  wishing  I  could  say  "None." 

Several  other  searching  questions  followed,  which  I  an- 
swered as  best  I  could.  There  was  a  moment's  silence,  during 
which  I  joyfully  concluded  that  Knowlton  did  not  care  much  for 
the  look  of  me.  It  is  difficult,  now,  to  explain,  but  I  did  not 
want  to  go  to  Deep  Harbor.  My  whole  life,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  four  years  at  college,  had  been  spent  in  Lon- 
don, and  I  had  no  wish  to  be  in  any  other  place. 

"Well,"  I  heard  Knowlton  say,  at  last.  "It  is  up  to  you, 
Mr.  Jevons.     I  guess  your  son  will  fit  the  job." 

My  father  turned  to  me. 

"It's  a  heavy  responsibility  for  you,  Ted — but  I  had  rather 
trust  you  than  a  stranger.  We've  got  a  lot  at  stake — in  fact, 
all  we've  got  in  the  world  is  at  stake.     Will  you  do  it?" 

I  looked  about  the  room  vaguely,  as  if  I  expected  to  find  an 
avenue  of  escape  miraculously  open  before  me.  Instead,  I 
saw  Knowlton's  shrewd  face  watching  me.  I  felt  an  utter 
loathing  and  fear  of  the  task  laid  upon  me;  yet  I  did  not 
know  how  to  refuse. 

I  stammered  out  at  last:  "I'll  do  my  best,  sir" — an  empty- 
sounding  formula  to  commit  one  to  so  much.  Instinctively 
I  knew  that  in  uttering  these  words  I  was  altering  the  whole 
course  of  my  life. 

My  father  was  delighted  by  my  reply.  He  shook  me 
warmly  by  the  hand  and  clapped  me  on  the  back. 

"Ted,  I  know  you.  You'll  make  good  out  there.  You've 
got  to.  And  when  you  have,  why,  then  you  can  come  back 
to  England  and  be  your  own  boss." 


10  I   WALKED    IN   ARDEN 

Thus  the  matter  was  settled,  without  time  for  reflection. 

That  evening  my  father  spent  in  giving  me  advice  and 
further  business  details.  The  next  morning  he  sailed  for 
England  again,  and  I  was  left  behind  to  join  Knowlton  at  the 
Grand  Central  Station  at  five  o'clock,  when  the  Limited  was 
to  leave  that  should  carry  us  to  Deep  Harbor. 

"The  future  is  a  terrifying  thing,"  I  thought  as  I  went  to 
bed  that  night. 


Chapter  Two 
i   set   out   along   a  new  trail 

SUNSET  over  the  Hudson  after  a  July  thunderstorm;  the 
observation  platform  of  a  Pullman,  rushing  toward  a 
new  and  unknown  world  in  the  Middle  West — such 
was  the  first  stage  of  the  trail  leading  to  the  heart  of  romance. 
Of  course  I  did  not  know  this  then.  In  fact,  the  beauty  of  the 
sunset  was  considerably  marred  by  the  thought  that  the  day 
before  I  had  seen  my  father  off  for  "home,"  for  England, 
while  I  had  been  condemned  to  indefinite  exile  in  a  lake  town 
famous  for  its  manufacturing;  and  I  felt  much  like  the  hero 
at  the  end  of  a  certain  type  of  Greek  tragedy.  No  one  could 
say  when  I  should  see  England  again,  or  once  more  browse 
along  the  bookstalls  of  Charing  Cross  Road,  or  drink  a  glass 
of  stout  at  Scott's  in  Leicester  Square.  Not  high  ideals  to 
long  for,  perhaps — but  Charing  Cross  Road,  the  Empire  on 
Leicester  Square,  or  the  noon-hour  walks  in  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields,  pausing  perhaps  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  the  Soame 
Museum,  or  venturing  as  far  as  Chancery  Lane,  seemed  to 
epitomize  the  things  for  which  I  was  desperately  homesick. 

It  had  strained  my  loyalty  to  my  father  to  the  breaking 
point  to  accept  the  test  he  had  put  upon  me.  No  word,  how- 
ever, of  my  resentment,  of  my  sullen  hatred  for  the  task,  had 
I  allowed  him  to  guess.  He  had  gone  aboard  the  steamer  in 
one  of  his  moods  of  extreme  optimism — business  would  flour- 
ish as  it  never  had  before  now  I  was  to  be  at  the  helm.  I 
had  looked  ruefully  at  the  cancelled  steamer  ticket  in  my 
hand  and  had  resolved  to  try,  but  in  very  truth  I  was  sick  at 
heart.  As  the  boat  left  the  dock,  I  turned  away  with  some 
boyish  tears  in  my  eyes — and  they  were  bitter  tears.  I  hated 
and  loathed,  at  that  moment,  the  fate  that  had  condemned 

11 


12  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

me  to  the  new  venture.  The  roar  and  clang  of  the  streets 
about  the  docks  seemed  symbols  of  all  that  was  unlovely,  of 
all  that  stood  between  me  and  what  I  wanted  to  do — symbols 
of  the  things  I  was  to  be  mixed  up  with,  no  one  knew  for 
how  long.  Until  I  made  the  new  business  a  success!  It  was 
easy  to  say — easy  even  for  my  father  to  pat  me  on  the  back 
and  speak  diffidently,  as  he  looked  the  other  way,  of  his  con- 
fidence in  me.  He  had  so  much  more  in  me  than  I  had  in 
myself!  I  knew  my  own  dangerous  lack  of  ambition — my 
fondness  for  remaining  a  spectator,  for  doffing  the  world 
aside  and  bidding  it  pass;  and  here  I  was,  entrusted  with  his 
future  and  that  of  my  mother  and  sister. 

What  a  plague  had  I  to  do  with  a  factory  and  a  manufac- 
turing town  on  the  Great  Lakes?  I  knew  nothing  of  either. 
All  I  asked  was  the  moon — London,  books,  theatres,  and  the 
gorgeous  solitude  of  rummaging  in  an  enchanted  cockney 
world.  But  that  world  could  not  be  had,  even  in  its  simplest 
form,  without  money,  and  money  I  had  to  win  in  order  to 
earn  my  right  to  the  moon.  There  was  nothing  I  had  ever 
felt  so  incapable  of  winning.  I  knew  I  was  full  of  a  kind  of 
inertia  that  terrified  me.  It  would  not  matter  to  fail  alone  in 
such  a  task,  but  my  failure  would  ruin  my  father — and  others. 
And  the  inertia,  the  indifference,  the  hatred  of  it  all  fright- 
ened me.  I  knew  it  was  no  mood  for  success;  yet  I  did  not 
know  how  to  fight  against  it. 

"Now,  Ted,"  said  a  crisp  voice  beside  me,  "we  reach  Deep 
Harbor  at  five-thirty  A.  M.  That  will  give  us  time  for  break- 
fast, and  get  out  to  the  factory  by  seven — when  the  whistle 
blows." 

"Good  heavens!"  I  thought  with  a  start,  coming  back  t© 
the  Pullman  and  reality  with  a  horrible  jerk.  "Seven — "  but 
words  failed  me. 

"You'll  have  a  chance  to  glance  around  the  machine  shop 
and  pick  out  a  location  for  the  testing  laboratory  before  the 
office  force  get  down.  Then  we  can  have  a  look  at  the  orders 
on  the  books  and  start  making  plans." 

No  time  to  get  one's  breath,  no  chance  to  edge  into  the  cold 


I   SET   OUT  ALONG  A   NEW  TRAIL         13 

water  inch  by  inch — the  thing  was  to  be  done  at  once.  I  was 
to  jump  from  that  Pullman  platform  into  the  deepest,  coldest 
part  of  the  stream. 

"As  soon  as  we've  passed  Storm  King  we'll  go  into  the 
smoker  and  make  a  rough  sketch  of  the  laboratory  lay-out,  so 
we'll  be  ready  for  them  in  the  morning." 

I  thought  again  of  the  ocean  liner  plunging  in  the  opposite 
direction,  and  what  my  father  was  thinking  at  that  moment. 
How  had  he  dared  trust  me? 

"Pshaw,"  said  my  companion,  reading  my  thoughts  with 
startling  accuracy.  "The  Middle  West  isn't  a  bad  place. 
You'll  soon  get  used  to  it.  Of  course,  it  isn't  Broadway," 
he  added,  with  a  sidelong  look  at  me,  "but  you'll  shake  down 
all  right.  What  do  you  think  of  the  Hudson  River?  Noth- 
ing like  this  in  England,  I'll  bet." 

"Have  you  ever  been  there?"  I  parried. 

"No.  Little  Old  New  York's  good  enough  for  me.  I  like 
live  ones — not  dead  ones.  There's  Storm  King  over  there — 
can  you  beat  it?  Look  at  the  light  over  it — gosh,  it's  enough 
to  make  a  fellow  feel  queer." 

I  looked;  and  the  latter  part  of  his  remark  was  undoubtedly 
true.  The  thunder  clouds  still  hung  about  in  broken,  irreg- 
ular masses,  through  which  radiated  a  startling  copper  glow, 
tapering  off  at  the  upper  edges  into  green.  The  mountain  it- 
self was  a  dark  shape  sharply  cut  against  the  light  side,  while, 
beneath,  the  river  was  oily  brass.  All  that  was  unknown,  even 
sinister,  was  bound  up  in  fearful  beauty.  I  could  not  endure  it, 
for  it  really  frightened  me.  I  got  up  hastily.  "Let's  go  into 
the  smoker — the  laboratory  sketch,"  I  faltered. 

"Sure! — good  work!  Let's  get  down  to  business  and  cut 
out  the  scenery."  His  words  had  a  most  ominous  connota- 
tion— like  the  symbolism  which  critics  allege  they  find  in 
Ibsen's  plays,  I  thought.  The  result  was  to  drive  away  for  a 
moment  my  gloom,  and  I  smiled  at  my  own  mental  comment. 

As  we  went  forward  toward  the  smoker,  I  looked  more 
closely  at  my  new  business  associate,  beginning  with  his  back, 
which  was  all  that  was  visible  now.     He  was  severely  dressed 


14  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

with  a  sort  of  fussy  neatness  peculiar  to  the  work  of  American 
business  men's  tailors.  His  shoes  shone  resplendent,  his 
trousers  were  creased  with  painful  accuracy,  his  back  was 
erect  and  smooth  as  a  duck's.  Even  his  hair  had  been  severely 
disciplined  by  his  barber,  and  on  it  my  friend  had  placed, 
with  due  care,  a  little  checked  golfing  cap  that  might  have 
been  the  product  of  a  maker  of  Swiss  watches,  so  exactly  did 
the  little  grey  and  black  squares  match  at  the  seams.  "Engi- 
neering efficiency  applied  to  personal  attire,"  I  thought  to  my- 
self. "His  clothes  remind  me  of  those  planned  by  the  mathe- 
maticians in  Laputa,  except  that  these  American  mathemati- 
cians use  formulae  of  scientific  accuracy." 

As  we  took  our  seats  in  two  large  wicker  chairs  in  the 
smoker  I  couldn't  resist  shaking  on  to  the  left  sleeve  of  his 
coat,  as  if  by  accident,  a  cold  ash  from  my  empty  pipe.  In- 
stantly he  produced  a  handkerchief  as  fine  and  dainty  as  a 
lady's  and  violently  flicked  at  his  sleeve.  I  murmured  an 
apology  and  smiled  to  myself.  Then  he  carefully  drew  up 
his  trousers  so  as  not  to  spoil  the  crease,  replaced  his  hand- 
kerchief, adjusted  his  invisible  eye-glasses,  and  produced  a 
pencil  and  paper. 

"Now  to  business!"  he  said. 

"One  moment,"  I  interrupted  and  touched  the  bell.  The 
coloured  porter  appeared.  I  saw  my  friend  frown  ever  so 
slightly.  My  sense  of  humour  was  returning  fast,  as  I  noted 
how  easy  it  was  going  to  be  to  tease  this  deadly  earnest,  effi- 
cient person.  "Will  you  have  a  whiskey  and  soda  or  a  bottle 
of  Bass?"  I  asked  in  an  innocent,  friendly  voice. 

"Neither,  thank  you.  When  I  have  business  to  discuss  I 
never  touch  liquor,"  he  replied,  with  a  most  meaning  em- 
phasis upon  the  latter  half  of  his  statement,  albeit  politely 
enough.  I  inwardly  resented  hearing  Bass's  ale,  or  whiskey 
and  soda  for  that  matter,  described  as  "liquor." 

"Bring  a  bottle  of  Bass  and  a  lemonade,"  I  said  to  the  porter, 
without  consulting  my  companion  further.  "You  must  drink 
something,"  I  added  by  way  of  apology.  Actually  I  was  un- 
der the  impression  that  sweet  lemonade  would  nauseate  a  grown 


I   SET   OUT  ALONG   A   NEW   TRAIL       15 

man,  if  taken  so  soon  after  dinner.  I  wanted  revenge  for  that 
word  "liquor." 

"Thanks — a  lemonade  is  just  a  thing,"  he  responded  enthu- 
siastically. "It's  a  very  refreshing  drink  on  a  warm  evening. 
You  are  very  kind — have  one  of  my  cigars?"  and  he  produced 
a  black,  oily  looking  object  named  after  some  Spanish  infanta 
and  having  about  the  same  figure  as  one  of  those  estimable 
princesses.  Now  I  felt  toward  a  black  cigar  on  a  hot,  stuffy 
train,  when  business  was  to  be  talked,  about  as  he  did  toward 
"liquor" — and  the  similarity  made  me  smile  again.  After  all, 
our  prejudices  were  the  same,  but  involved  different  details. 
The  lemonade  arrived,  he  bit  his  aromatic  monster,  puffed  it 
luxuriously,  waved  his  glass  ceremoniously  at  me,  and  took  a 
deep  draft  of  the  sweet  liquid,  copiously  mixed  with  Havana 
smoke.  My  glass  of  Bass,  on  the  way  to  my  lips,  paused,  and  I 
shuddered.  I  began  to  wish,  like  Hamlet,  that  I  had  tried 
some  other  plan  of  revenge  for  that  foul  epithet  "liquor." 

"Now  we  are  all  set,"  he  announced  cheerily,  which  was 
more  than  I  was  sure  my  dinner  was,  but  I  said  nothing. 
"Have  you  thought  about  the  dimensions?"  he  continued. 

"Of  what?"  I  asked,  my  mind  still  on  the  problem  of  a  com- 
pound of  cigar  and  lemonade. 

"The  testing-laboratory,  of  course!"  There  was  just  a  trace 
of  irritation  in  his  tone.  I  made  a  guilty  effort  to  pull  myself 
together. 

"No,  I  haven't.  But  I've  a  list  in  my  trunk  of  the  machinery 
we  need  and  the  floor  space  it  occupies.  It's  easy  enough  to 
figure  it  out  from  that." 

"In  your  trunk!"  he  said  in  an  awful  voice.  "Then  what's 
the  use  of  talking  about  it  tonight?" 

"That's  what  I  wondered,"  I  remarked  amiably,  "but  I 
thought  perhaps  you  had  some  ideas  on  the  subject." 

I  could  see  from  his  expression  that  I  had  made  a  bad  start. 
His  face  was  sharp,  keen,  shrewd,  but  not  at  all  intellectual. 
His  eyes  were  bright  and  beady,  and  I  knew,  as  I  l'ooked  at  him, 
that,  for  all  his  alert  keenness  and  shrewdness,  he  knew  nothing 
about  anything  except  the  business  he  had  been  taught.     The 


16  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

latter  he  knew  with  an  almost  ferocious  accuracy.  On  a  spe- 
cific engineering  problem  in  his  own  field  it  would  be  hard  to 
match  him,  but  on  constructive  ideas  which  involved  applying 
what  he  knew  to  broader  questions — I  had  my  doubts.  There 
was  no  imagination,  no  background  on  which  to  build.  I 
began  to  see  my  father's  method  in  picking  such  an  associate 
for  me.  On  details  this  man  couldn't  go  wrong — he  would 
keep  my  part  of  the  work  practical,  whereas  I  knew  I  was 
relied  upon  to  see  in  what  new  paths  this  manufacturing  com- 
pany could  be  made  to  expand  and  develop.  But  first  I  had 
to  learn  the  business.  Therefore,  as  the  present  arrangement 
stood,  I  was  my  companion's  subordinate. 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  said;  "I  didn't  think  we  could  talk  business 
until  we  had  seen  the  factory,  so  I  put  all  my  data  in  my 
trunk." 

"Well,"  he  laughed,  "I  guess  we'll  gradually  have  to  get  you 
used  to  hustling.  Here's  a  whole  evening  we  might  have  used, 
and  you've  thrown  it  away.  But  I  can  give  you  some  good 
advice  about  your  new  job,  anyway." 

"Please  do,"  I  remarked,  anxious  to  atone  for  my  error. 

"Ted,"  he  went  on,  "I'm  a  New  Yorker,  and  I've  made  pretty 
good  as  an  engineer.  I've  had  to  make  my  own  way,  and  I 
don't  know  much  about  fancy  living,  but  I  know  a  hell  of  a  lot 
about  making  and  not  making  money." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'fancy  living'?"  I  asked  with  genu- 
ine interest. 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  going  around  in  musical  comedy 
clothes  and  drinking  liquor  when  you  ought  to  be  on  the  job. 
Do  you  get  me?" 

It  suddenly  dawned  on  me,  not  all  at  once,  but  little  by  little, 
that  he  meant  me!  "Musical  comedy  clothes"  rankled  most, 
for  I  did  not  at  first  catch  the  full  force  of  his  suspicions. 

"I  got  these  clothes  in  Bond  Street,"  I  protested  mildly. 

"I  don't  know  where  you  got  them,  but  they  look  it,"  he 
said. 

"Now,  my  boy,  you're  going  to  a  town  where  people  don't 
understand  all  this  fancy  foreign  stuff.     You've  got  to  dress 


I   SET   OUT  ALONG  A   NEW  TRAIL      17 

the  part  and  get  down  to  being  a  plain  American  where  you 
started  from.  You've  got  to  cut  out  the  booze.  I  don't  know 
about  women,  but  your  clothes  give  the  wrong  idea  there  too." 

At  last  the  total  of  his  suspicions  penetrated,  and  unfor- 
tunately I  suddenly  shouted  with  laughter.  I  rocked  back  and 
forth  in  my  chair  in  uncontrollable  delight.  When  I  at  last 
looked  up,  he  was  smoking  his  cigar  at  a  most  uncompromising 
angle,  with  a  hurt  look  upon  his  face. 

"My  dear  Knowlton,"  I  gasped  at  last,  "I  have  no  idea 
what  impression  I  have  given  you,  but  really  your  last  insinua- 
tion was  too  much  for  me.  Like  most  young  men  of  my  age 
I'm  probably  engaged  or  soon  will  be — and  as  for  the  rest,  you 
needn't  worry." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'probably  engaged  or  soon  will 
be'?"  He  asked,  still  suspiciously,  but  obviously  somewhat 
relieved  at  this  announcement. 

"I'm  twenty-three — one  usually  finds  the  thing  imminent  at 
that  age." 

"Hell!"  he  replied.  "This  is  business,  not  a  joke.  Booze 
and  women  don't  mix  with  business." 

"I've  never  mixed  them  much — even  for  pleasure,"  I  retorted. 
"I  hate  headaches,  and  uneducated  people  bore  me  so  that, 
be  they  as  beautiful  as  Cleopatra,  I  can  make  nothing  of 
them.  I  assure  you  I  shall  be  perfectly  safe  in  Deep  Harbor, 
or  anywhere  else  that  the  most  ancient  profession  flourishes." 

"I  get  you,"  he  said,  "and  I  guess  it's  straight  all  right, 
from  all  I've  heard.  Takes  you  a  lot  of  words  to  say  it,  just 
as  it  takes  you  too  much  time  to  do  things.  But  you'll  get 
over  that.  Point  is,  Deep  Harbor  won't  see  you  at  all.  Not 
in  those  clothes." 

"They  are  simple  country  tweeds,"  I  protested  once  more, 
for  the  thought  that  I  might  have  to  wear  his  kind  horrified 
me.     "My  tailor  is  supposed  to  know  his  business." 

"They  don't  fit,  and  they're  loud  enough  to  scare  all  the 
trotting  horses  on  State  Street.  Don't  you  ever  get  'em 
pressed?  If  you  go  sitting  around  in  cafes  drinking  English 
ale,  you'll  make  a  bad  impression.     We've  got  to  build  up  a 


18  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

new  business  and  we've  got  to  get  people's  confidence  in  us  to 
do  it.  You  can't  float  around  town  in  the  Middle  West  like 
you  was  attending  a  house  party  and  get  away  with  it.  People 
won't  think  you  are  serious — when  they  don't  think  you  are 
worse." 

"I  see,"  I  replied.  "Business,  as  I  understand  it,  is  so 
serious  a  thing  out  here  that  its  pursuit  means  banishing  from 
one's  life,  as  a  start,  all  sense  of  humour  and  all  the  little  com- 
forts and  conveniences.  One  can  have  electric  light,  a  por- 
celain bath,  steam  heat,  and  a  bank  account,  but  one  mustn't 
have  comfortable  clothes,  easy-going  habits,  or  a  genial  feel- 
ing for  the  absurdities  of  solemn  living." 

"There  you  go  exaggerating  everything  I  say.  No  wonder 
you  know  a  lot  about  chemical  experiments — your  ideas  tum- 
ble all  over  themselves.  That's  all  right  when  you've  got  test 
tubes  to  pour  'em  into,  but  you  got  to  be  careful  how  you  spill 
'em  around  Deep  Harbor.     What  church  do  you  attend?" 

The  suddeness  with  which  this  query  came  at  me  left  me 
floundering  once  more. 

"Church?"  I  queried,  as  if  I  had  never  heard  of  the  institu- 
tion. 

"Hell,  yes — church,"  Knowlton  replied.  "Nothing  like 
being  seen  regularly  at  church  when  you  hit  a  new  town.  You 
make  friends  that  way,  and  it's  good  for  business — makes 
people  think  you  steady  and  dependable." 

"Really,  I  had  never  before  considered  the  church  in  the 
light  of  a  business  associate,"  I  answered,  "but  I  can  see 
there  is  considerable  point  to  what  you  say.  I  wonder  Polo- 
nius  didn't  think  of  it." 

"One  of  those  classical  guys  you  learn  about  in  college,  isn't 
he?" 

"Yes — you  would  admire  immensely  his  advice  to  his  son. 
I'll  buy  you  a  calendar  with  it  on  when  we  get  there.  It's  a 
lot  like  what  you've  been  telling  me." 

"Well,  I  guess  he  was  a  wise  guy,  all  right,  and  learned  the 
way  I  did — from  being  up  against  it.  That's  worth  all  the 
book  learning  there  is." 


I   SET  OUT  ALONG  A   NEW  TRAIL      19 

"But  you  learned  your  profession  from  books." 

"Sure  I  did — scientific  books.  You  can't  put  them  in  the 
same  class  with  the  stuff  they  fill  you  full  of  at  college." 

"There's  a  science  of  living — and  some  of  that  is  in  books 
too." 

"Well,  how  about  church?  You've  got  the  damnedest  habit 
of  steering  the  conversation  off  the  subject  I've  ever  seen. 
There's  only  one  science  of  living — get  the  stuff,  then  you  can 
live  as  you  damn  please." 

"Surely  you  don't  expect  me  to  go  to  church  just  to  help 
business." 

"You  mean  to  say  you  don't  go  to  church  at  all?" 

"About  that.  Once  in  a  while  to  a  cathedral — when  I  want 
to  think  or  dream,  and  there  happens  to  be  a  cathedral  handy, 
or  else  to  some  little  quiet  parish  church  that  I'm  certain  be- 
forehand has  an  eleventh  century  smell." 

"I'm  a  Presbyterian,"  he  announced  stoutly,  as  if  I  would 
dispute  him,  and  bit  off  the  end  of  another  impossible  cigar. 
"Everybody  ought  to  be  something."  He  had  ignored  my 
cathedral  reply. 

"True,"  I  said,  "but  why  Presbyterian  when  one  might 
choose  so  many  other  things  to  be?  Aren't  they  the  people 
who  believe  something  dreadful  about  babies?" 

"My  father  was  a  Presbyterian — he  was  an  old  Scotch  en- 
gineer and  went  to  sea  for  forty  years.  I've  always  kept  up 
what  he  thought,  for  no  one  ever  got  ahead  of  the  old  man — 
not  much." 

So  this  man  was  an  idealist  down  underneath  all  that  hard, 
surface  veneer  of  remorseless  business!  It  was  quite  obvious 
that  the  old  Scotch  engineer  had  not  laid  up  treasures  for  his 
posterity,  and  yet  he  had  left  a  clear  impression  that  "no  one 
ever  got  ahead  of  him" — an  ideal  of  success,  recognized  as 
success,  not  built  on  the  attainment  of  wealth.  I  felt  a  lot 
better  about  Knowlton — we  were  going  to  get  on,  I  was  certain. 
But  I  didn't  dare  tell  him  all  this,  for  I  knew  he  wouldn't  un- 
derstand. I  was  even  sorry  I  had  been  flippant  about  Presby- 
terians.    After  all,  it  was  a  silly  pose  to  patronize  a  man  who 


20  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

had  made  his  way  from  the  bottom  to  the  position  of  a  first 

class  engineer,  whereas  I  had  done  nothing  but  read  a  few 

books  and  drift  about  the  world. 

"Knowlton,"  I  asked,  in  all  seriousness  this  time,  "will  you 

have   another  drink?" 

"Thanks,  I  wouldn't  mind  one  more  of  those  lemonades." 
Once  more  the  porter  came,  and  I  ventured  a  second  bottle  of 


"I'll  be  discreet  in  Deep  Harbor,"  I  apologized,  "although  I 
won't  promise  to  give  up  Bass  entirely.  It's  a  link  with  home 
— almost  a  ceremony,  you  know." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  Ted.  I  guess  I've  got  you  sized  up  all 
right.  Go  ahead  and  be  your  own  boss.  As  long  as  you 
deliver  the  goods,  that's  all  I  ask.     Do  it  in  your  own  way." 

The  drinks  arrived.  "Bring  a  box  of  chocolate  pepper- 
mints," he  commanded  the  porter.  "Good  heavens — he's 
going  to  add  that  to  his  lemonade  and  cigars!"  I  thought. 
"What  is  that  man's  interior  made  of?" 

"So  you  have  already  sized  me  up?"  I  asked  as  he  munched 
a  chocolate  between  alternate  sips  and  puffs. 

"Sure!  I  got  you  pretty  straight  down  in  the  office  in  New 
York  the  day  we  signed  the  papers.  I  did  think  you  might 
jump  the  track  once  in  a  while,  though.  And  when  you  blew 
on  to  the  train  in  that  third  act  make-up,  I  thought  perhaps 
you'd  been  out  for  a  final  fling  at  Broadway.  But  you're  all 
right.     Have  some  chocolate?" 

"No,  thanks.  I  am  curious,  though,  to  have  my  fortune 
told.     Will  I  make  good,  do  you  think?" 

"Ted,  I'm  going  to  be  straight  with  you.  I  don't  know. 
You  may  get  folks  sore  at  you,  the  way  you  always  seem  to  be 
laughing  inside  you  at  the  people  who  don't  talk  or  think  the 
way  you  do.  You  don't  know  it  all  yet,  and  you've  got  no 
patience  with  folks  who  don't  belong  to  your  gang.  You 
haven't  knocked  around  enough  in  real  life  to  learn  that  there's 
several  ways  of  getting  there  besides  your  way.  You've  lived 
abroad  and  picked  up  a  lot  of  things  I  don't  know  anything 
about  and  never  will,  and  you're  a  little  stuck  on  your  cargo. 


I   SET   OUT  ALONG  A   NEW  TRAIL      21 

But  I'm  not  so  sure  it's  worth  as  much  as  you  think  in  the  open 
market — not  in  the  manufacturing  business  in  Deep  Harbor. 
Still,  a  couple  of  years  on  the  treadmill  may  work  wonders." 

"A  couple  of  years!"  I  gasped. 

"Well,  you  don't  expect  to  take  a  new  concern  and  make  a 
fortune  in  twelve  months  the  way  they  tell  you  in  those  story 
books,  do  you?  Not  if  you  was  John  D.  Rockefeller,  which 
you  aren't." 

"Two  years  in  Deep  Harbor,"  I  murmured  almost  to  myself. 

"Oh,  Deep  Harbor's  a  pretty  decent  sort  of  a  town.  It's 
up-to-date.  They've  got  a  Chamber  of  Commerce  full  of  live 
wires  and  the  place  is  just  beginning  to  hit  its  stride.  Give 
the  plants  there  now  ten  years,  and  the  town  will  be  full  of 
millionaires.  Of  course,  I  can  see  your  point — I'm  a  New 
Yorker  myself,  and  the  Bush  League  doesn't  appeal  any  too 
strong  to  me.  But  the  stuff  lies  buried  out  there  in  that  burg, 
and  you  and  I,  Ted,  are  going  there  to  dig  some  of  it  up. 
There's  nothing  like  growing  up  with  a  town." 

And  with  this  final  epigram,  Knowlton  got  up,  stretched,  and 
guessed  he  would  go  to  bed. 

I  bade  him  good-night  and  lit  another  pipe.  I  confess 
frankly  that  I  found  Knowlton's  accurate  powers  of  analysis 
disturbing.  I  who  had  flattered  myself  that  I  knew  all  about 
him  with  the  first  words  he  spoke,  now  made  the  humiliating 
discovery  that  he  already  knew  more  about  me  than  I  was  ever 
likely  to  know  about  him.  Furthermore,  his  estimate  of  me, 
if  not  too  unfavourable,  was  still  not  very  flattering.  When 
at  last  I  left  the  smoker  for  the  sleeper,  it  was  in  as  gloomy  a 
frame  of  mind  as  when  I  first  boarded  the  train. 


Chapter  Three 
i   camp  in   the   desert 

ABOUT  an  hour  after  a  turbulent  portion  of  my  night's 
rest,  later  identified  as  something  being  done  to  the  train 
in  the  yards  at  Buffalo,  the  porter  aroused  me,  and  I 
made  such  preparations  as  a  Pullman  makes  possible  to  face 
the  new  day  and  a  new  world.  We  were  rapidly  drawing  near 
Deep  Harbor,  and  Knowlton's  briskness  at  the  imminent  ap- 
proach of  business  increased  even  beyond  its  normal.  It  was 
akin  to  the  pawing  of  the  mediaeval  charger  when  he  knew  it 
near  the  time  for  the  oriflamme  to  be  advanced.  The  diner  was 
not  yet  ready,  so  Knowlton  sat  beside  me  and  pointed  out  the 
potential  and  actual  resources  of  the  country  as  we  whizzed 
along.  For  me,  my  first  sight  of  Lake  Erie  lying  blue  and 
serene  in  a  hot  early  morning  July  sun  was  sufficient.  I  cared 
little  for  statistics  in  the  face  of  that.  In  spite  of  the  heat  the 
vegetation  was  still  vividly  green  and  fresh,  washed  from  the 
showers  of  the  day  before.  At  frequent  intervals  turbulent 
and  muddy  little  brooks  rushed  lakewards  through  red  shale 
gorges  full  of  moss,  ferns,  and  gorgeous  old  trees.  From  the 
railway  tracks  to  the  mile-or-so-distant  lakeshore  interminable 
vineyards  stretched,  interspersed  with  an  occasional  field  of 
Indian  corn.  On  our  left,  low-lying  hills  rolled  backward  to 
the  horizon.  The  sunlight  was  vivid,  almost  painful,  and  the 
whole  country  seemed  to  glow  and  teem  with  life. 

The  villages  were  less  encouraging.  As  a  rule  they  were 
straggly  and  unkempt,  with  tumble-down  wooden  houses  and 
barns,  and  showed  no  pride  in  neatness,  apart  from  a  well-kept 
school-house  or  other  solitary  public  building.  There 
were  few  if  any  flowers  about  the  cottages,  and  what  few 
there  were  were  neglected.     The  gardens  were  composed  of 

22 


[   CAMP   IN   THE   DESERT  23 

grass,  which  the  more  careful  owners  were  already  out  sprin- 
kling with  garden  hose.  In  fact  the  garden  hose  seemed  al- 
most the  only  sign  of  community  pride.  Even  kitchen  gar- 
dens were  few  and  badly  cultivated. 

"What  do  they  do  with  these  millions  of  grapes?"  I  asked 
Knowlton. 

"Make  grape- juice  of  them,"  he  answered.  "See — there's 
a  grape  juice  factory  over  there." 

It  seemed  to  me  a  strange  way  of  repaying  Heaven's  bounty, 
as  I  felt  quite  certain  these  same  grapes  would  make  excellent 
claret,  but  I  knew  better  than  to  say  this  to  Knowlton. 

"I  suppose,"  I  said  at  last,  as  the  vineyards  began  to  get  a 
little  on  my  nerves,  "that,  like  everything  else  over  here,  these 
are  the  largest  vineyards  in  the  world?" 

"No,"  he  surprised  me  by  replying,  "the  California  vine- 
yards are  much  more  extensive."  Knowlton  had  a  weakness 
for  words  like  "extensive."  When  he  abandoned  slang  he  used 
in  its  place,  not  always  accurately,  a  language  of  almost 
eighteenth  century  formality. 

"There's  Deep  Harbor,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed  in  much  ex- 
citement; "you  can  see  the  towen  of  the  Polish  cathedral." 

"Polish  cathedral?"  I  asked  in  utter  amazement,  thinking 
perhaps  this  was  one  of  Knowlton's  jokes. 

"Sure.  All  the  unskilled  labour  in  Deep  Harbor  is  Polish 
— that's  their  church.  Just  beyond  are  the  chimneys  of  the 
Lake  Board  Paper  Company.  These  are  the  yards — get  your 
suit-case." 

"Polish!"  I  thought.  "Here  is  an  unexpected  complica- 
tion." There  was  no  time  to  ask  more  about  the  "sledded 
Polacks,"  for  at  that  moment  the  train  stopped  with  a  jerk  and 
we  got  off. 

"Right  on  time — 5.30  to  the  second,"  said  Knowlton,  con- 
sulting his  watch.  "We'll  just  go  down  State  Street  to 
Schaefer's  Hotel,  leave  our  grips,  and  get  breakfast.  Then 
to  work." 

The  train  was  already  moving — evidently  one  had  to  be 
quick  in   order  to   disembark   at  Deep    Harbor.     I    glanced 


24  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

about.  The  platform  of  the  station  was  of  rotten  and  irregu- 
larly laid  planks.  The  station  itself  was  a  grey,  forbidding- 
looking  structure  with  a  tower  on  which  was  the  date  1864.  A 
truck  load  of  trunks  charged  us  profanely,  and  we  were  just 
able  to  dodge  aside.  A  youth  offered  to  sell  me  some  sand- 
wiches wrapped  in  tissue  paper.  I  was  seized  with  an  irresist- 
ible desire  to  test  Knowlton  at  his  own  briskness. 

"Why  not  breakfast  here  on  sandwiches  and  then  go  straight 
out  to  the  factory?     We  can  save  an  hour." 

Knowlton  snorted.  *Not  much.  Railroad  sandwiches!  I 
must  have  a  cup  of  coffee;  besides,  we  can't  get  in  until  quarter 
of  seven." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "then  these  people  do  get  some  sleep."  Knowl- 
ton ignored  this.  "Is  Schaefer's  far?  My  suit-case  is  heavy 
— let's  take  a  cab." 

Knowlton  laughed.  "I  doubt  if  you  can  get  a  hack  at  this 
hour  of  the  morning — and  why  waste  two  dollars?  We  can 
take  the  trolley." 

With  that  we  dodged  across  a  maze  of  terrifying  tracks,  be- 
tween charging  switch  engines  and  lines  of  freight  cars  in  the 
throes  of  some  internal  convulsion,  to  emerge  safely  at  last  on 
the  opposite  side,  where  a  pale  yellow  trolley  car  was  awaiting 
us.  As  I  climbed  aboard,  the  conductor  spat  with  amazing, 
albeit  disturbing,  accuracy  one  inch  to  the  right  of  my  ear,  but 
gave  no  other  sign  in  answer  to  our  mild  query  if  he  went  by 
Schaefer's.  Concluding  that  silence  gave  consent,  we  sat  down. 
Schaefer's  proved  surprisingly  near — so  near  that  the  trolley, 
which  seemed  to  me  to  travel  at  a  fearful  speed,  carried  us  one 
street  too  far  before  the  non-committal'  conductor  could  be  in- 
duced to  pull  the  signal  bell.  As  we  left  I  felt  certain  that,  for 
some  unknown  reason,  we  had  earned  his  disapprobation. 

Schaefer's  was  an  old,  dirty-looking  building,  with  a  large 
plateglass  window  giving  on  to  the  pavement.  Behind  the 
window  was  a  row  of  large  golden  oak  rocking  chairs,  and 
beside  each  chair  a  highly  polished  brass  vessel  of  convenient 
height.  We  entered  its  portal  to  encounter  a  strange,  musty 
odour  composed  in  part  of  sawdust,  warm  rubber,  and  genera- 


I   CAMP   IN   THE   DESERT  25 

tions  of  Dad  cooking.  Behind  a  desk,  on  which  was  spread 
open  a  large  book,  a  young  man  with  glazed  hair  and  an  un- 
pleasant cravat  was  chewing  a  wooden  toothpick.  Without 
even  glancing  at  us  he  removed  a  pen  from  a  raw  potato  and 
silently  handed  it  to  Knowlton.  I  wanted  to  ask  why  pens 
were  kept  sticking  in  raw  potatoes,  but  decided  to  wait  for  a 
more  opportune  time.  Knowlton  signed  his  name  in  a  fine 
Spencerian  flourish  with  beautifully  shaded  lettering,  added 
"New  York,"  and  passed  the  pen  to  me.  Underneath  I  wrote 
mine  in  a  somewhat  trembling  hand,  most  self-conscious  un- 
der the  eyes  of  the  young  man  with  the  toothpick,  and  placed 
"London"  after  my  signature.  The  clerk  suddenly  revolved 
the  book  as  if  it  were  on  a  pivot  and  studied  our  handiwork 
attentively.  When,  in  the  course  of  a  moment  or  two,  he 
reached  my  signature  he  took  a  pen  from  behind  his  ear — the 
other  equivalent  of  a  raw  potato,  I  thought — and  gratuitously- 
scratched  "Canada"  after  the  "London."  I  took  the  book,  re- 
volved it  as  I  had  seen  him  do  it,  silently  crossed  out  the 
"Canada"  and  wrote  in  "England."  Once  more  the  book  was 
revolved  and  this  alteration  examined.  Satisfied  that  the 
word  was  no  other  than  the  one  I  had  apparently  written,  he 
calmly  looked  me  over  from  head  to  foot  and  again  waited, 
silently  as  before. 

"Two  breakfasts,"  said  Knowlton. 

"Front!"  the  clerk  ejaculated  the  length  of  his  toothpick. 
"Show  Mr.  Knowlton  and  his  friend  to  the  dining  room. 
Check  the  grips." 

"Front"  was  another  pale  youth,  of  tender  years,  but  with 
an  evil  leer  in  his  face.     He  seized  our  hand  luggage. 

"This  way,  gents!" 

We  followed. 

"Does  the  clerk  know  you?"  I  asked  Knowlton.  The 
latter  shook  his  head.  "But  he  called  you  by  name,"  I  pro- 
tested. 

"He  read  my  name  in  the  register." 

I  had  not  thought  of  that. 

The  odour  of  the  dining  room  was  different,  but  no  better 


26  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

than  that  of  the  office.  There  was  evidently  a  closer  contact 
with  the  bad  cooking  and  less  of  the  warm  rubber.  There 
advanced  to  meet  us  across  the  black  and  white  tile  floor  a 
tall  and  majestic  young  lady  with  pyramidal  yellow  hair  and 
a  black  satin  gown  which  fitted  her  most  snugly.  She  bil- 
lowed up  to  us,  turned  upon  her  high  patent  leather  heels,  and 
undulated  over  to  a  long  table,  her  hips  swinging  like  an 
Oriental  water  carrier's.  Meekly  we  trailed  after  her  and  sat 
where  she  indicated.  Just  above  our  heads,  a  large  wooden 
propeller  kept  a  swarm  of  flies  pleasantly  agitated.  On  the 
table  in  front  of  my  seat  were  a  coffee  stain,  a  jar  of  wooden 
toothpicks,  and  a  large  wire  fly-trap  full  of  prisoners  buzzing 
over  their  misfortune.  The  Hebe-like  personage  withdrew, 
to  reappear  with  two  very  thick  glasses  filled  to  overflowing 
with  pale  yellow  ice  water.  These  she  casually  spilled  at  each 
of  our  places  and  added  a  dirty  and  grease-stained  card  con- 
taining an  itemized  list  of  all  the  things  the  mind  of  man  had 
as  yet  been  able  to  conceive  as  edible  at  breakfast.  Seven 
varieties  of  tea  alone  were  enumerated,  including  many  that 
had  a  novel  sound.  The  lady  disappeared  and  left  us  to  our 
emotions  in  tranquillity. 

While  I  was  still  marvelling  at  the  things  the  menu  offered 
for  breakfast,  I  was  suddenly  aware  of  another  damsel's  pres- 
ence. As  I  looked  up,  T  discovered  her  leaning  pleasantly  on 
her  elbow,  looking  over  my  shoulder,  above  which  I  noted  her 
jaws  in  rapid  motion  about  a  piece  of  chewing  gum.  When  1 
finally  reached  her  eyes,  the  mastication  ceased,  and  she 
smiled  a  most  open  and  friendly  smile.  I  did  all  1  could  to 
return  it  as  heartily.  She  put  into  its  proper  place  an  erring 
lock  of  brilliant  auburn  hair,  and  in  a  voice  that  hurt,  it  was 
so  sharp  and  searching,  she  exclaimed: 

"Well,  gents — what'll  it  be?  Baked  apples,  prunes,  or 
oranges?"  This  was  completely  to  ignore  the  menu,  which 
ranged  all  the  way  from  peaches  to  melon  in  its  printed  prom- 
ises. 

"What  about  cantaloupe?"     I  asked  timidly. 


I   CAMP   IN   THE   DESERT  27 

"It's  all  out,"  she  replied  promptly;  "nothin'  in  but  baked 
apples,  prunes,  and  oranges." 

"Then  why  this  elaborate  list?"     I  enquired. 

"Gee  whizz!  What  do  you  expect  for  fifty  cents?  This 
ain't  the  Auditorium  Hotel.  Prunes  is  nice  today."  All  this 
she  spoke  in  one  breath. 

"Bring  me  some  prunes  and  milk,"  said  Knowlton.  I  shud- 
dered. I  was  determined  not  to  be  bullied  into  ordering  some- 
thing I  didn't  want. 

"I'll  take  an  orange,  bacon  and  eggs,  and  coffee,"  I  said 
firmly.  Her  jaws  slowed  down  almost  to  a  pause,  as  she 
looked  me  steadily  in  the  eye,  decided  she  would  not  fight  it 
out  just  then,  and  departed,  apparently  much  hurt.  Knowlton 
rubbed  his  hands  briskly,  a  sure  sign  he  was  preparing  to  utter 
some  cheerful  remark.  I  looked  at  him  in  a  way  which  was  an 
obvious  defiance  to  any  happy  bon-mot  he  might  conceive,  so 
he  thought  better  of  it  and  returned  to  a  contemplation  of  the 
menu.  For  some  time  the  room  was  empty  and  silent,  save  for 
the  buzzing  of  the  captured  flies  and  the  hum  of  the  overhead 
propeller.  Then  the  auburn-haired  maid  returned,  with  a  bowl 
of  prunes  and  a  generous  pitcher  of  milk,  upon  whose  bluish- 
ivory  surface  there  struggled  a  solitary  fly. 

"Where  is  my  orange?"     I  ventured. 

"  'Scuse  me — did  you  say  'orange'?"  she  asked  as  sweetly  as 
that  acid  voice  would  permit.  "Thought  you  said  'ham  an' 
eggs  an'  coffee'  " 

With  a  whish  of  her  skirts  she  was  gone  once  more,  and  I 
realized  that  the  first  step  in  her  revenge  for  my  ignoring 
prunes  was  accomplished.  Knowlton  deftly  removed  the  fly 
from  his  milk  with  a  teaspoon,  flicked  the  creature  carelessly 
on  to  the  floor,  and  poured  the  whole  contents  remaining  over 
the  prunes.  Next  he  seized  a  handful  of  crisp  biscuits, 
crushed  them  in  the  palms  of  his  hands,  and  added  them  to  the 
mixture.  The  resultant  compound  seemed  to  me  very  nearly 
equivalent  to  half  a  bushel,  dry  measure.  With  a  large  sized 
spoon  he  attacked  the  mess  vigorously.     It  was  not  wholly  a 


28  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

silent  operation.  I  pressed  my  lips  firmly  together  and  said 
nothing  as  the  level  in  his  bowl  rapidly  diminished. 

Again  the  lady  with  sunset-glow  hair  came  back.  With 
a  thump  that  startled  me,  she  dropped  in  front  of  me  a  platter 
on  which  was  a  thick  slice  of  ham  ornamented  by  two  highly 
glazed  fried  eggs.  Beside  it  was  deposited  a  plate  containing 
a  pale  roll,  a  piece  of  yellow  corn-bread,  and  a  muffin  made 
out  of  some  strange  refuse — all  these  warm  and  soggy.  The 
cup  of  coffee  followed,  in  a  cup  innocent  of  any  handle.  The 
coffee  had  already  been  diluted  with  milk  and  a  spoon  stuck 
in  it. 

"Sugar?"  and  she  began  to  ladle  heaping  spoonfuls  of 
granulated  sugar  rapidly  from  a  glass  dish.  There  was  no 
trace  of  any  orange. 

"Stop!"  I  commanded  so  suddenly  she  spilt  a  spoonful  of 
sugar  over  the  table  cloth.     "Where  is  my  orange?" 

"Gee,  did  you  want  the  orange  first?"  Her  surprise 
sounded  quite  genuine.     "I  thought  you  ordered  it  last." 

"Never  mind  the  orange  now" — after  all,  I  did  know  when 
I  was  thoroughly  beaten — "but  I  want  black  coffee,  and  I  did 
say  'bacon,'  not  'ham.'  Also  some  toast.  You  may  leave  the 
ham,  now  it's  here." 

"Gee,  you're  an  awfully  fussy  eater,"  was  her  comment. 
"You  didn't  order  black  coffee,  did  you?" 

"No,"  I  had  to  admit. 

"Well,  I'm  only  a  waitress,  not  a  mind  reader,"  and  with  this 
unanswerable  retort  she  scooped  up  my  cup  of  coffee  with  a 
skilfully  perilous  gesture,  and  resumed  her  quest.  Knowlton 
looked  across  at  me  and  grinned. 

"Having  trouble  with  your  breakfast?  You  can't  expect 
breakfast  at  Schaefer's  to  be  like  dear  old  London,"  he  went 
on,  while  something  approaching  a  serious  outburst  was 
struggling  in  me.  "When  in  Rome,  do  as  the  Romans  do — 
that's  the  best  plan." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  I  said  with  extreme  self-control,  "but 
I  am  not  going  to  eat  prunes  if  the  whole  Holy  Roman  Empire 
ate  them.     I  don't  see  why  she  can't  bring  me  the  breakfast  I 


I   CAMP   IN   THE   DESERT  29 

want  when  everything  on  God's  earth  is  on  that  bill  of  fare." 

"You'll  shake  down  all  right,"  he  said  in  what  was  meant 
to  be  a  soothing  way.  "Kicking  about  the  grub  won't  do  you 
any  good.  They  don't  know  any  better  in  a  place  like  this. 
What's  the  use  of  getting  in  wrong  with  the  waitress?" 

It  was  hopeless  to  explain,  so  I  snorted  instead.  Knowlton 
took  a  slice  of  bread  and  polished  the  inside  of  his  now  empty 
bowl  until'  it  glistened. 

"Looks  as  though  Fido  had  finished  that  off,"  he  remarked, 
as  he  rolled  and  lit  a  cigarette;  "I'll  knock  some  ashes  into  it  so 
they'll  have  to  wash  it." 

The  waitress  appeared  with  a  cup  of  coffee,  a  plate  piled 
high  with  thick  slices  of  toast  on  which  chunks  of  butter  were 
still  melting,  another  plate  with  two  oranges,  and  a  third  con- 
taining two  rashers  of  coarse  bacon.  With  the  grieved  air 
of  a  person  determined  to  do  her  duty  in  the  face  of  all  re- 
buffs she  silently  grouped  this  food  about  me. 

"What  will  you  have,  Mr.  Knowlton?"  There  was  just 
a  faint  emphasis  upon  the  "you." 

"Thanks,  you  can  bring  me  a  steak,  some  German  fried 
potatoes,  a  couple  of  soft-boiled  eggs,  and  some  griddle 
cakes." 

"Do  you  want  black  coffee  too?"  she  asked  with  meaning. 

"No,  make  mine  half  milk,  and  bring  along  another  plate  of 
rolls." 

"Sure!"  remarked  the  waitress  cheerfully  and  vanished. 

"And  how  did  she  know  your  name?"  I  asked,  realizing  it 
was  quite  useless  to  question  Knowlton  about  his  theory  of  a 
hot  weather  diet. 

"Oh,  she  asked  the  clerk,  I  guess.  Ijt's  good  business  to  al- 
ways call  customers  by  name.     Makes  'em  feel  at  home." 

I  looked  around  the  room  again  and  inwardly  decided  that 
something  more  than  that  simple  and  naive  process  would  be 
needed  in  my  case. 

"They  mean  well,"  Knowlton  went  on,  with  his  disconcerting 
habit  of  reading  my  thoughts,  "but  they  don't  always  know 
how.     Now,  you're  used  to  thinking  of  a  girl  like  that  as  a 


30  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

servant.  She  isn't.  She  thinks  she's  as  good  as  you  are,  and  I 
guess  there's  something  in  that  too.  You  treat  her  all  right  and 
she'll  treat  you  the  same.  But  don't  pull  any  of  that  European 
stuff  here.     They  don't  know  what  it  means." 

Knowlton's  breakfast  arrived,  and  he  fell  upon  it  with  gusto. 

"You  gents  come  from  Pittsburgh?"  the  waitress  enquired, 
evidently  much  mollified  by  Knowlton's  treatment  of  his 
breakfast. 

"Nope — New  York,"  Knowlton  answered. 

"Gee,  I'd  like  to  go  East,"  she  said  fervently.  "It  must  be 
just  grand.     What  line  you  gents  travelling  in?" 

"We  aren't  travelling  men,"  Knowlton  replied.  "I'm  an  en- 
gineer, and  my  friend  here  is  just  a  plain  business  man." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  somewhat  disappointed,  I  thought.  It  was 
clear  that  she  did  not  rank  us  as  highly  as  she  did  travelling 
men.     "Just  passin'  through  the  city,  I  suppose,"  she  continued. 

"It's  hard  to  say,"  said  Knowlton.  "Maybe  we'll  be  here 
sometime." 

"Going  to  board  here?" — her  interest  in  us  somewhat  re- 
newed, at  this  announcement. 

"We  haven't  settled  on  our  eating  joint  yet.  Thought  we'd 
look  round  first." 

"This  is  as  0.  K.  as  any,"  she  said.  "The  grub's  nothing 
wonderful,  but  it's  as  good  as  you'll  get.  Lou  Meyer's  Rath- 
skeller hasn't  anything  on  us,  and  he  charges  a  dollar  a  week 
more.  'Course,  if  your  friend's  particular,  he  might  try  the 
Otooska  House  down  on  the  park.  They  put  on  a  lot  of  airs 
and  charge  New  York  prices  there,  but  it's  the  same  old  grub." 

"Well,"  said  Knowlton,  "we'll  see.  We'll  try  'em  all  out 
before  we  decide." 

At  this  moment  another  customer  entered,  to  be  conducted 
jby  the  head-waitress  with  like  ceremony,  as  in  our  case,  to 
his  seat,  and  our  blaze  of  glory  departed  to  ascertain  his  wants. 
As  Knowlton  rose,  seized  a  toothpick,  and  started  for  the  door, 
followed  by  me,  I  heard  our  waitress  beginning  her  searching 
personal  questions  all  over  again. 

We  paid  for  our  breakfasts — fifty  cents  apiece — at  the  desk, 


I   CAMP   IN   THE   DESERT  31 

where  the  clerk  took  the  same  lack  of  interest  in  the  transac- 
tion as  before.  Knowlton  asked  him  the  way  to  the  Deep  Har- 
bor Manufacturing  Company,  our  destination. 

"West  Twelfth  Street  car  to  the  end  of  the  line,"  was  the 
brief  reply,  and  with  that  we  set  forth. 

Although  it  was  still  very  early  in  the  morning,  or  seemed  so 
to  me,  unaccustomed  to  begin  a  day's  work  at  six  thirty,  it 
was  rapidly  growing  hot  with  a  peculiar  dry,  intense  heat  that 
made  the  sunlight  painful.  West  Twelfth  Street  proved  to  be 
in  the  direction  of  the  railway  station,  and,  although  it  was  only 
two  blocks  from  Schaefer's,  I  was  thoroughly  moist  with  perspi- 
ration when  we  joined  a  throng  of  blue-overalled  mechanics, 
waiting  with  shining  tin  dinner  pails  on  the  corner  for  the  ar- 
rival of  the  car.  There  was  no  car  in  sight  when  we  got  there, 
and  as  we  waited  I  listened  to  the  peculiarly  blasphemous  con- 
versation of  the  men  about  me.  Their  talk  was  intelligent,  far 
more  so  than  that  of  a  corresponding  class  of  English  working- 
men,  but  it  was  interlarded  with  an  original  and  soul-curdling 
profanity.  Rates  of  pay,  politics,  baseball,  their  foremen,  and 
women  seemed  to  be  the  staples  of  conversation.  Young  men 
predominated.  Their  faces  were  sharp  and  eager,  and  they 
seemed  tense  and  alive,  although  affecting  and  even  boasting  of 
their  dislike  for  their  "jobs"  and  their  dissatisfaction  with  the 
management  of  their  factories.  But  it  was  obvious  at  a  glance 
that  they  were  well  fed  and  clothed,  and  were  excellent  work- 
men. They  played  incessant  practical  jokes  on  each  other, 
rolled  innumerable  cigarettes,  and  cheered  the  electric  car 
when  it  at  last  arrived.  Long  before  it  stopped  they  charged 
the  car  en  masse,  with  rough  good  nature,  greeting  conductor 
and  motorman  by  name,  and  filled  every  inch  of  it  before 
Knowlton  and  I  could  fight  our  way  to  a  bare  foothold  upon 
the  rear  platform. 

The  car  whizzed  out  a  most  dreary  street — drearier  even  than 
the  streets  across  the  river  in  Bermondsey  or  over  beyond  the 
Elephant  and  Castle.  It  was  six  inches  deep  in  a  choking  grey 
dust  which  the  fast  moving  car  stirred  up  into  a  remorseless 
searching  cloud.     Overhead  in  the  hot  blue  sky  hung  masses 


32  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

of  coal  smoke,  now  beginning  to  pour  from  factory  chimneys. 
Parallel  to  the  car  line  ran  a  railway  track,  quite  unguarded 
from  the  street  proper,  along  which  switch  engines  with 
freight  cars  smoked  and  clanged.  On  either  side  we  passed 
an  endless  row  of  factory  buildings,  some  of  brick,  but  more 
of  wood — even  those  which  were  several  stories  high.  In 
spite  of  the  streaming,  intense  sunlight  and  the  final  blue  of 
the  sky,  the  scene  was  one  of  desolation. 

The  car  stopped  with  a  jerk — we  had  reached  the  end,  it 
seemed — and  with  great  promptness  we  pushed  one  another  off 
the  rear  platform.  This  crowd  of  workmen  simply  treated 
Knowlton  and  me  as  non-existent,  and,  if  we  happened  to  be  in 
front  of  them,  attempted  the  physical  paradox  of  walking  right 
through  us.  As  I  reached  the  pavement,  I  saw  before  me  a 
long  narrow  two-storied  brick  building,  surrounded  by  various 
lesser  sheds  and  outhouses,  the  whole  surmounted  by  a  huge 
sign  which  read  "Deep  Harbor  Manufacturing  Company." 
This  was  the  magic  purse  of  Fortunatus  which  I  had  come  so 
far  to  seek.  It  looked  prosaic  enough,  but  not  so  dismal  as 
my  ride  out  Twelfth  Street  had  caused  me  to  fear.  It  was  the 
last  of  Twelfth  Street,  apparently,  and  the  last  of  the  factories 
at  that  end  of  town,  for  beyond  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  green 
cornfields,  grey  wooden  fences,  and,  still  further  on,  a  blue 
sliver  of  the  lake.  "At  least,  there's  air  from  the  west,"  I 
thought,  as  I  followed  Knowlton,  my  heart  thumping  curiously 
now  I  was  almost  face  to  face  with  my  ordeal. 

We  entered  a  door  marked  "Office — No  Admittance  Except  on 
Business,"  and  climbed  a  steep  flight  of  stairs  to  pass  into  a 
railed-off  outer  room  full  of  desks  and  typewriters.  There 
was  only  one  young  man,  slightly  bald,  with  his  coat  off,  ad- 
justing black  alpaca  half -sleeves  over  his  cuffs  as  we  entered. 
From  one  lip  hung  the  inevitable  toothpick  which  seemed  to 
be  the  totem  pole  of  these  regional  tribes.  He  looked  up  at 
us  and  advanced  to  meet  us,  holding  out  one  hand. 

"Mr.  Knowlton?  I'm  sure  gl'ad  to  meet  you.  Walk  in. 
My  name's  Kane,  Phil  Kane,  and  I'm  general  sales  manager  for 
the  D.  H.  M.  Co." 


I   CAMP   IN   THE   DESERT  33 

He  shook  Knowlton's  hand  warmly. 

"My  friend  and  associate,  Mr.  Ted  Jevons,  of  London, 
England,"  said  Knowlton. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Jevons,"  said  Kane,  looking  at 
me  with  the  same  curiosity  I  studied  him  with.  "They  tell  me 
London  is  some  town,"  he  added  with  a  forced  laugh  and  an 
attempt  at  hearty  conversation.  "I  expect  we  seem  a  little 
out  of  it  here  by  the  lake,  after  them  big  cities,  but  Deep  Har- 
bor's pretty  up-to-date  at  that.  We  have  more  miles  of  paved 
streets  in  proportion  to  our  population  than  any  city  between 
Buffalo  and  Toledo.  Have  you  seen  the  view  from  the  Sol- 
diers' Home,  Mr.  Jevons?" 

I  informed  him  that  we  had  only  just  arrived  and  had  come 
directly  to  the  factory,  after  a  breakfast  of  sorts  at  Schaefer's. 

"You'd  ought  to  have  taken  Mr.  Jevons  to  the  Otooska 
House,"  said  Kane,  laughing.  "They  have  music  with  meals 
there,  just  like  a  New  York  hotel'.  'Course,  it's  only  an  elec- 
tric organ,  but  it  makes  you  feel  cheerful.  Come  right  in, 
won't  you?  Mr.  Norwood  won't  be  out  to  turn  the  factory 
over  to  you  gentlemen  until  about  eight,  but  if  there's  anything 
I  can  do  to  show  you  around  first,  just  say  the  word." 

As  I  passed  through  the  little  swinging  gate  that  divided  the 
inner  from  the  outer  office,  Kane  seized  my  hat  with  a  mur- 
mured apology  and  hung  it  on  a  hook. 

"This  is  the  general  manager's  office,  in  there,"  he  said,  point- 
ing through  the  door  in  a  wooden  partition  into  a  cubby  hole 
containing  one  roll-top  desk,  two  chairs,  and  a  large  filing 
cabinet.  "I  suppose  you'll  use  this,  Mr.  Knowlton.  Ques- 
tion is,  where'll  we  put  Mr.  Jevons'  desk?" 

"Oh,"  I  replied,  "mine  will  be  in  the  testing  laboratory." 

"Laboratory?"  he  repeated.  "I  saw  something  about  that 
in  the  correspondence  over  the  sale  of  the  plant,  and  I  couldn't 
figure  out  what  you  were  going  to  build  a  laboratory  for." 

"To  test  and  improve  our  product — also  to  systematize  its 
factory  costs,"  I  said. 

"Well,  maybe  so,"  he  remarked  doubtfully,  "but  a  labora- 
tory seems  to  me  like  an  awful  addition  to  overhead  expenses. 


34  I   WALKED    IN   ARDEN 

However,  I  don't  presume  to  know  how  to  run  your  business, 
Mr.  Jevons.  I  suppose  you  won't  make  any  radical  changes  in 
the  selling  department,  will  you?"  There  was  a  note  of  genu- 
ine anxiety  in  his  voice. 

"Not  for  the  present,"  Knowlton  interjected  crisply.  "We 
shall  continue  the  policy  and  staff  of  the  old  company  until  we 
get  our  bearings.  Then  there  will  be  plenty  of  opportunity  for 
good  men  to  move  up.  Meanwhile,  we'll  size  up  the  efficiency 
of  everybody  and  see  what  we've  got." 

Kane  scratched  the  back  of  one  ear  with  a  pencil  and  turned 
this  statement  over  in  his  mind.  I  noticed  that  his  eyes  were 
pale  and  weak,  and  that  his  manner  was  plainly  that  of  a  man 
who  had  little  faith  in  fortune's  star.  An  efficiency  test  was 
clearly  one  he  was  not  confident  of  facing,  but  neither  was  I, 
and  my  sympathy  went  out  to  him.  I  had  never  seen  a  man  at 
close  range  before  who  actually  feared  for  his  bread  and  but- 
ter, and  that  was  what  Kane's  face  showed,  as  he  tried  to  con- 
ciliate the  two  of  us  as  representatives  of  the  new  owners.  It 
was  not  a  pleasant  sight.  I  could  tell  by  Knowlton's  sharp 
glance  at  him  that  our  engineer  was  remorselessly  applying 
that  uncanny  faculty  of  his  of  reading  men's  thoughts,  and  I 
guessed  Kane  had  sealed  his  own  doom. 

But  Knowlton  said  never  a  word.  Instead  he  pulled  some 
papers  from  his  pocket,  checked  his  memoranda  for  the  day, 
and  read  a  few  documents  which  Kane  turned  over  to  him.  I 
took  out  my  pipe  and  started  to  light  it. 

"No  smoking  in  the  factory!"  exclaimed  Knowlton  sharply. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  I  protested,  "that  I've  got  to  be  here 
from  seven  to  six  each  day  without  even  smoking?" 

"Just  that,"  replied  Knowlton  with  a  grin.  "We  lose  our 
insurance  if  we  allow  smoking." 

At  that  moment  a  steam  whistle  began  an  infernal  din,  ap- 
parently over  my  head — a  din  which  was  echoed  from  every 
point  of  the  compass.  Instantly  an  even  worse  clatter  and  roar 
of  machinery  began  under  our  feet,  and  the  flimsy  wooden  floor 
and  partitions  vibrated  visibly. 

"Seven  o'clock!"  said  Knowlton,  rising.     "The  day's  work 


I   CAMP   IN   THE   DESERT  35 

has  begun.  Come,  Ted,  we'll  take  a  walk  through  the  machine- 
shop  and  look  things  over.  Never  mind,  Kane — we'll  find 
our  own  way  around.  Don't  lose  time  from  your  job  on  our 
account." 

With  this  hint  Kane  went  suddenly  back  to  his  desk,  while 
Knowlton  and  I  descended  the  stairs  and  entered  the  machine 
shop.  As  we  passed  through  the  narrow  aisles  between  closely 
packed  lathes  and  planers,  Knowlton  made  a  series  of  rapid 
notes  on  the  back  of  an  envelope.  Nothing  escaped  his  eye, 
from  a  machine  working  too  slowly  to  a  foreman  with  too 
many  men  to  look  after.  At  the  time  I  had  no  way  of  judging 
whether  his  inspection  revealed  a  satisfactory  condition  or  the 
reverse.  The  factory  had  been  bought,  of  course,  after  a 
preliminary  inventory  of  contents  and  orders  on  hand,  but 
Knowlton's  task  was  to  judge  of  its  efficiency  as  an  operating 
plant.  For  over  an  hour  we  went  from  one  department  to 
another,  until  Knowlton's  notes  had  covered  all  the  scraps  of 
paper  either  of  us  had  in  our  pockets. 

"I  guess  we'll  go  upstairs  now  and  talk  to  Norwood,"  said 
Knowlton.  "By  the  way,  what  did  you  think  of  the  plant, 
Ted?"  I  felt  as  my  old  friend  Dr.  Watson  must  have  felt 
when  Sherlock  Holmes  asked  him  one  of  those  sudden  posers 
whose  explanation  was  really  so  simple. 

"It  seems  very  busy,"  I  said  with  conscious  feebleness. 

"Yes,"  he  remarked  drily,  "that  busyness  is  also  costing 
them  a  lot  of  money.  I  think  we'll  shake  this  old  place  up, 
Ted,  before  we're  through." 

As  I  followed  him  I  covertly  looked  at  my  watch.  A  little 
after  eight!  Good  heavens,  how  many  hours  to  six  o'clock! 
It  seemed  as  if  I  had  been  up  since  day  before  yesterday. 

The  upper  office  was  now  full  of  clerks  and  clicking  type- 
writers, presided  over  by  some  remarkably  pretty  girls.  At 
least  three  of  them  looked  me  straight  in  the  eye  as  I  went  past, 
and  I  made  a  mental  note  that  they  were  a  great  improvement 
upon  the  waitresses  at  Schaefer's.  But  my  thoughts  were  in- 
terrupted by  Norwood's  coming  forward  to  greet  us. 

Norwood  was  one  of  the  young  millionaires  of  Deep  Har- 


36  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

bor — the  son  of  a  father  who  had  helped  to  create  the  town  and 
whose  capital  was  the  backbone  of  every  enterprise  of  impor- 
tance in  the  city.  Young  Norwood  had  recently  inherited  the 
overlordship  of  Deep  Harbor,  and  one  of  his  first  acts  had  been 
to  sell  the  Deep  Harbor  Manufacturing  Company  to  the  in- 
terests represented  by  my  father. 

Norwood  himself  was  rather  a  disappointment.  He  was  a 
tall,  weak-faced,  pale  young  man,  whose  clothes,  neat  and 
costly,  were  wrong  in  every  particular.  His  seal  ring  was 
too  large,  his  watch  chain  too  heavy,  his  collar  too  high,  and 
his  cravat  too  loud.  Even  his  shoes  were  ornamented  with 
fancy  leatherwork  in  scroll  patterns.  His  manner  was  cordial 
to  the  point  of  oiliness,  yet  cold  and  insincere.  In  short,  I  took 
an  instant  dislike  to  him. 

Obsequiously  he  placed  chairs  for  us,  closed  the  door,  and 
produced  fat  black  cigars,  thus  ignoring  the  office  rule  about 
smoking;  and  while  he  was  ostensibly  listening  to  Knowlton  I 
had  the  uncomfortable  feeling  that  he  was  studying  me.  As 
Knowlton  ran  over  the  items  of  his  memoranda  I  kept  catching 
Norwood  looking  me  over  out  of  the  corners  of  his  watery  blue 
eyes.  It  was  increasingly  clearer  that  Knowlton's  questions 
and  enthusiastic  exposition  of  plans  were  boring  Norwood,  for, 
after  fidgeting  more  and  more,  he  suddenly  got  up. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "the  business  is  yours  now. 
I'm  sorry  I've  an  engagement  downtown.  If  there's  anything  I 
can  do,  or  any  advice  I  can  give  you,  just  'phone  me  and  I'll 
look  in,  anytime.  Glad  to  have  met  you,"  and  with  a  vigorous, 
cold  handshake  he  left.  Knowlton  and  I  faced  each  other. 
We  were  now  in  command  of  the  ship.  Knowlton  carefully 
extinguished  his  cigar. 

"Ted,"  he  said,  "I  don't  trust  this  Norwood.  He's  sold  this 
thing,  and  it  looks  all  right,  but  I'm  afraid  there  is  a  Sene- 
gambian  concealed  somewhere  in  the  woodpile.  You  noticed 
how  he  dodged  talking  over  the  business?" 

I  nodded.     Even  I  had  noted  that. 

"Besides,"  I  added,  "he  did  not  offer  to  put  us  up  at  his  clubs 
or  in  any  way  behave  like  a  gentleman." 


I   CAMP   IN   THE   DESERT  37 

Knowlton  grinned  his  favourite  grin. 

"Ted,  I  hadn't  thought  of  that  as  an  index  of  Norwood's 
business  ability,  but  damned  if  I  don't  think  your  reason  as 
good  as  mine." 

With  that  he  pressed  a  button  on  his  desk  and  a  spotlessly 
clean  young  woman  responded. 

"Bring  me  the  file  of  our  customers,"  he  said,  and  she  with- 
drew. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  I  asked. 

"You — oh,  yes — you  go  out  to  the  drafting  room  and  design 
the  testing  I'aboratory.  Come  to  me  if  you  get  stuck  on  any 
details.  As  for  me,"  he  added,  "I'm  going  to  start  looking  for 
that  Senegambian  this  very  minute." 

My  arrival  in  the  drafting  room  caused  a  mild  sensation 
among  its  occupants,  but  a  drawing  table,  desk,  instruments, 
and  materials  were  speedily  placed  at  my  disposal,  and  as  there 
was  a  rule  against  talking  in  this  room,  I  was  left  in  silence,  but 
under  close  observation,  to  work  out  my  problem.  Furtively 
I  produced  from  my  pocket  a  useful  manual  containing  prac- 
tical tables  and  formulae  for  nearly  everything  under  the 
sun,  and  with  the  help  of  this  and  my  actual  knowledge  of 
what  a  chemical  laboratory  ought  to  contain,  I  had  made  con- 
siderable progress  with  my  rough  pencilled  plan  when  the 
twelve-o'clock  whistle  blew.  I  had  become  so  absorbed  in  my 
work  that  I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  noon  hour. 

I  found  Knowlton  in  the  office  where  I  had  left  him.  He  was 
surrounded  by  piles  of  papers  and  correspondence  which  he 
was  reading,  checking,  and  making  notes  about  on  separate 
slips  of  paper. 

"Not  found  him  yet,  but  I  think  I'm  on  his  trail,  Ted.  Let's 
go  to  lunch." 

There  was  no  lunchroom  in  the  neighborhood,  so  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  go  back  to  Schaefer's  in  the  broiling  heat 
of  the  packed  trolley  car,  and  again  face  the  flies  and  perils  of 
that  dining  room.  As  Knowlton  insisted  upon  our  being  back 
at  the  factory  before  the  one-o'clock  whistle,  there  was  no  time 
to  change  one's  clothes  or  to  see  about  a  place  to  sleep  that 


38  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

night.  Never  had  I  felt  so  dirty  as  I  did  after  a  morning  in  the 
heat  and  soft  coal  smoke  of  Deep  Harbor.  Luncheon  at  Schae- 
f  er's  proved  to  be  "dinner,"  a  noisy,  crowded,  hurried  affair  in 
which  the  waitress  made  no  pretence  of  serving  one's  order, 
but  brought  what  she  considered  a  standard  type  of  meal. 
There  was  no  time  to  protest  or  change  things.  Knowlton,  as 
usual,  ate  prodigiously,  with  the  most  annoying  conceivable  rel- 
ish, of  everything  put  before  him,  and  gulped  down  in  addi- 
tion two  large  tumblers  of  watery  milk. 

We  were  back  at  ten  minutes  to  one,  and  promptly,  as  the 
whistle  blew,  I  stood  once  more  before  my  drawing  table  and 
resumed  the  task.  About  three  o'clock  it  seemed  as  if  I  could 
not  stand  another  moment.  My  knees  shook  with  fatigue  and 
the  unaccustomed  strain  of  standing  hour  after  hour,  but  there 
were  no  seats  in  the  drafting  room,  and  every  one  had  to  do  his 
work  standing  up.  At  four  I  thought  I  should  have  to  go  to 
Knowlton's  office  and  beg  for  mercy,  but  I  didn't,  because  I 
knew  he  would  think  me  unable  to  stick  even  a  simple  job 
through.  At  five  the  office  staff  left,  including  the  drafting 
room,  but  there  was  still  an  hour  for  me.  And  this  was  to  go 
on  five  and  a  half  days  a  week,  month  after  month,  I  thought ! 
How  did  factory  workers  endure  it  without  going  mad? 

When  the  six  o'clock  whistle  blew,  I  could  almost  have  cried 
with  relief.  I  nearly  staggered  as  I  came  into  Knowlton's 
office,  and  sank  into  a  chair  mopping  my  face. 

Knowlton  grinned. 

"Young  gentleman  from  London,  England,  finds  ten  hours  in 
an  American  factory  on  a  nice  warm  July  day  something  of  a 
physical  effort — shall  I  have  that  put  in  tomorrow's  Social 
Notes?"  he  asked. 

"You  can't  insult  me,  Knowlton,"  I  said.  "I  am  damned 
tired,  and  I  have  sense  enough  to  admit  it.  So  are  you,  I  sus- 
pect, only  you've  been  sitting  down." 

"Well,"  he  conceded,  "this  elusive  Senegambian  I  am  after 
does  make  me  tired — especially  as  friend  Norwood  is  too  sly 
a  customer  to  be  caught  with  the  goods  on  him.  If  the  Sene- 
gambian is  there — and  I've  already  found  his  footprints — we 


I    CAMP   IN   THE   DESERT  39 

can  trust  Norwood  to  have  made  himself  safe  first.  Let's  go 
eat." 

"Not  at  Schaefer's— God,  not  there!"  I,  wailed.  "I've  had 
all  I  can  stand  of  that  hole." 

"All  right.  We'll  try  the  Rathskeller,  but  don't  forget  we 
haven't,  as  yet,  any  place  to  sleep." 

I  was  too  tired  to  eat  when  we  reached  the  little  musty  hot 
German  restaurant  down  under  the  sidewalk  off  State  Street, 
but  the  waiter  did  produce  a  large  foaming  mug  of  German 
beer  in  which  I  blunted  some  of  the  acuteness  of  my  physical 
aches  and  pains. 


Chapter  Four 

i  have  my  first  encounter  with 
prospero 

ONE  evening,  after  we  had  been  a  few  weeks  in  Deep  Har- 
bor, Knowlton  arrived  at  my  rooms  as  soon  as  he  had 
had  supper. 

"Teddy,  I've  got  a  new  j  ob  for  you  and  one  that'll  keep  you 
— well,  it'll  keep  you  pretty  busy."  There  was  one  comforting 
thing  about  Knowlton,  he  never  beat  about  the  bush. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked  anxiously. 

"I've  just  hired  a  chemical  assistant  for  you." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"No,  it's  much  more  complicated  than  that.  This  fellow  is 
an  old  inventor — a  kind  of  genius.  At  any  rate,  I've  got  faith 
in  him.  He  dreams  dreams  and  sees  visions,  like  the  fellow  in 
the  Bible — Job,  wasn't  it?  I  guess  you  know  what  I  mean. 
But  he  has  two  serious  drawbacks.  He  isn't  practical — not  the 
least  idea  of  the  value  of  money.  It's  up  to  you  to  see  he  does 
economically  what  he's  told.  The  other  drawback  is  that  he 
drinks  and  is  thoroughly  unreliable.  You've  got  to  keep  him 
straight  and  keep  him  away  from  the  booze.  His  favourite  oc- 
cupation, aside  from  chemistry,  is  alternating  Bass's  ale  with 
brandy  and  Benedictine.  Then  he  gets  ugly  and  his  experi- 
ments suffer.    When  he's  sober,  he's  a  wonder." 

I  still  was  totally  at  sea  as  to  what  was  expected  of  me. 

"He  looks  like  a  pirate  from  the  Barbary  coast — San  Fran- 
cisco," Knowlton  went  on,  "and  when  he's  full  he  acts  like  one. 
I've  rented  the  bedroom  that  opens  into  this  study  for  him. 
You  can  share  the  sitting  room  and  work  here  evenings  on  your 
chemical  problems.  Also  you  will  be  able  to  keep  an  eye  on 
him.     The  first  time  he  comes  home  pickled,  you  let  me  know." 

40 


ENCOUNTER  WITH   PROSPERO        41 

This  cool  way  of  supplying  me  with  a  roommate  staggered 
me. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  cable  your  father  to  authorize  this  ar- 
rangement?" said  Knowlton,  with  his  unerring  skill  in  tracing 
the  course  of  my  thoughts. 

"Not  if  you  honestly  tell  me  it  is  for  the  good  of  the  business, 
and  not  because  you  want  to  tie  me  down." 

"Well,"  he  puffed,  looking  at  his  cigarette,  "I'm  frank 
enough  to  say  it's  a  mixture  of  both.  We  need  this  man  in 
our  business  and  some  one  has  got  to  look  after  him.  It's  two 
birds  with  one  barrel." 

"It's  very  inconvenient  for  me,"  I  objected.  "I  like  to  read 
and  experiment  with  my  literary  work  in  the  evenings." 

"The  world  is  often  an  inconvenient  place,"  moralized 
Knowlton.  "It  might  be  inconvenient  for  several  of  us  if  old 
Prospero  gets  to  hitting  the  booze." 

"Prospero?"  I  enquired,  surprised  by  Knowlton's  sudden 
excursion  into  literature. 

"That's  the  best  name  I  know  for  him.  I  learned  a  piece 
about  him  in  school  once,  something  about  cloud-capped  pal- 
aces leaving  a  wreck  behind  them,  or  words  to  that  effect.  I 
have  a  hunch  that  if  you  steer  old  Prospero  right,  he'll  bring 
one  of  those  cloud-capped  palaces  down  to  earth.  The  only 
thing  that  worries  me  is  the  danger  of  the  wreck  behind. 
Shakespeare  certainly  knew  human  nature  all  right.  He  was  a 
wise  boy." 

Knowlton  achieved  his  carefully  planned  purpose  of  disarm- 
ing me.  I  laughed  and  even  began  to  feel  most  curious  con- 
cerning Prospero. 

"What  is  the  real  name  of  your  genius?"  I  asked,  still  post- 
poning my  final  decision. 

"John  de  Fougere  is  what  he  call's  himself,  since  he  decided 
he  had  French  blood.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  took  this  name  to 
avoid  an  unnecessary  wife  in  Cripple  Creek.  That's  a  piece  of 
information  I've  salted  away  for  what  it  may  be  worth  to  us. 
Just  now  he  is  living  with  an  ex-circus  gymnast.  I'm  buying 
he  lady  off.  and  persuaded  John  to  pay  his  alimony  to  her.     He 


42  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

thinks  I  think  this  circus  woman  is  his  wife.  Prosperous  right 
name  is  Donald  McClintock  and  he  hails  originally  from  South 
Carolina.  There's  still  some  Scotch  that  isn't  whiskey  in  him 
somewhere." 

"I  think  you  have  planned  a  rather  heavy  contract  for  me. 
Won't  he  get  restless  without  his  gymnastic  companion?" 

"No.  You  see  Prospero  is  all  hrains  and  no  physical 
strength.  Lately  the  lady  has  taken  to  practicing  her  gymnastic 
skill  on  him  and  beats  him  up  every  time  he  stays  out  nights. 
He  says  she  is  too  crassly  material  to  appreciate  his  knowledge 
of  chemistry.  If  we  can  keep  him  in  shape  and  use  his  brains 
for  three  months,  I'll  be  satisfied." 

"All  right"  I  agreed  finally.  "You  may  move  him  in  here 
and  I'll  stand  it  as  long  as  I  can.     When  does  he  arrive?" 

"Day  after  tomorrow." 

With  this  Knowlton  rose  and  took  himself  off,  leaving  me  to 
meditate  upon  this  new  complication  in  life. 

Wednesday  evening  brought  Prospero.  Knowlton  escorted 
him  to  my  apartment,  and  the  door  between  my  study  and  the 
extra  bedroom  was  formally  opened.  Prospero  revealed  the 
reason  for  his  name.  He  was  a  tall,  gaunt,  swarthy  individual 
over  whose  sharp  bones  a  sallow,  shrunken  skin  clung  tightly. 
His  eyes,  deep  sunken  and  brown,  glowed  beneath  bushy  eye- 
brows. His  long,  lean  face  was  adorned  with  a  waxed  mous- 
tache and  sharp  pointed  goatee,  which,  together  with  an  ample 
brimmed  felt  hat,  gave  him  the  appearance  of  a  royalist  of  the 
ancient  regime.  He  wore  a  Byronic  collar,  above  which  pro- 
truded an  enormous  Adam's  apple  resting  in  the  folds  of  a 
flowing  black  tie.  His  hands,  tapering  like  a  vulture's  claws, 
were  covered  with  cheap  imitation  jewelry.  A  suit  of  out- 
rageous checked  tweeds  and  patent  leather  pumps  gave  the  last 
touch  to  his  bizarre  appearance.  Any  one  seeing  him  would 
seize  upon  him  as  a  character  newly  stepped  from  some  detec- 
tive story  or  tale  of  mystery.  His  breath  was  strongly  impreg- 
nated with  alcohol,  which  the  smoke  of  a  Cuban  cigarette  hang- 
ing loosely  from  a  flabby  lower  lip  could  not  conceal.  He 
seemed  even  more  out  of  place  in  Deep  Harbor  than  I  did. 


ENCOUNTER   WITH   PROSPERO         43 

Some  mediaeval  alchemist's  cell,  hung  with  crocodiles  and 
stuffed  owls,  was  the  only  natural  background  for  him. 

With  him  he  brought  infinite  luggage — everything  from  a 
steamer  roll  to  a  canvas  dunnage  bag,  all  of  it  portable.  As 
we  shook  hands,  an  act  which  he  performed  in  a  most  friendly 
manner,  he  crossed  the  room,  opened  one  of  his  mysterious 
overflowing  bags,  and  produced  a  box  of  costly  chocolates. 
These  he  solemnly  passed — like  the  Dodo  in  "Alice  in  Wonder- 
land," I  thought.  Like  Alice  I  took  one,  fearing  to  offend  him. 
Then  he  drew  his  chair  up  to  a  table  and  announced  that  he 
was  ready  to  talk  business. 

Knowlton  evidently  understood  what  was  expected,  for  he 
took  out  a  roll  of  bills  and  counted  out  a  respectable  pile.  "I 
think  you  will  find  the  amount  correct — two  months'  pay  in 
advance  as  per  our  agreement,"  said  Knowlton.  Prospero 
made  great  ceremony  of  counting  and  recounting  the  bills  in 
silence,  moistening  his  fingers  frequently  and  getting  the  smoke 
from  his  cigarette  in  his  eyes  at  intervals  during  the  process. 

"And  now,  Teddy,  my  lad,"  he  said  suddenly  to  me,  to  my 
intense  surprise,  calling  me  by  my  nickname  in  this  unexpected 
way,  "we'll  go  out,  get  something  to  eat,  and  see  the  town." 

I  looked  at  Knowlton,  and  his  expression  denoted  approval. 
I  fetched  my  hat  and  the  two  of  us  sallied  forth.  Don  Quixote 
and  Sancho  were  not  a  more  ill-assorted  couple,  and  it  was  not 
strange  that  men  turned  to  stare  at  us  in  the  street. 

"You  are  French,  I  believe,"  I  said  at  last  in  a  desperate  ef- 
fort to  start  conversation.  I  didn't  believe  it,  but  I  wanted  to 
know  what  he  would  say.     His  answer  was  astounding. 

"I  am  a  descendant  of  Charles  Martel,"  he  announced  as  if 
he  were  stating  the  most  ordinary  fact.  I  let  the  statement  pass 
in  silence. 

"Are  you  leading  me  to  the  best  restaurant  in  town?"  he 
queried  a  block  further  on. 

"If  you  wish,"  I  replied.  "The  best  restaurant  in  town  is  a 
relative  question.  We'll  try  the  so-called  grill  room  at  the 
Otooska  House." 

Our  entrance  together  was  easily  the  event  of  the  evening. 


44  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

Prospero  demanded  a  table  like  an  emperor  issuing  a  procla- 
mation. Waiters  came  upon  the  run  from  every  nook  and 
cranny  and  crowded  tables  upon  us.  He  was  content  to  sit  at 
the  most  conspicuous.  To  one  waiter  he  handed  his  hat,  to 
another  his  stick,  to  a  third,  his  gloves,  and  bade  a  fourth 
"Divest  my  friend  of  his  paraphernalia."  There  was  a  distinct 
touch  of  Wilkins  Micawber  in  his  make-up,  I  decided ;  still,  one 
must  expect  that  of  a  present-day  relative  of  Charles  Martel. 

"Stout  and  oysters  for  two,"  he  commanded.  "I  have  ven- 
tured to  order  stout  and  oysters  in  compliment  to  you,"  he 
explained.  "The  combination  is  new  to  me,  but  I  have  read 
about  it  in  Charles  Dickens'  novels." 

"We  are  rather  inland  for  oysters,"  I  said.  "They  have  an 
indecent  habit  here  of  serving  them  nude  on  a  plate — without 
their  shell,  I  mean,"  I  added,  as  Prospero  frowned  question- 
ingly. 

"You  are  a  chemist,  Edward?  Am  I  right?"  Prosper o's 
questions  sounded  like  those  of  Rhadamanthus. 

"I'm  trying  to  be  one,"  I  modestly  rejoined. 

"I  am  the  greatest  chemist  in  the  world,  if  I  choose  to  let  men 
know  it."  It  seemed  to  me  rather  ill  concealed  for  a  secret  of 
such  importance.  "I  have  an  idea  here — "  he  tapped  his  fore- 
head— "that  will  make  me  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice. 
Would  you  like  to  know  what  it  is?" 

"Very  much,"  I  said  sipping  my  stout  gratefully. 

"Listen!"  he  proclaimed.  "I  have  discovered  the  secret  of 
making  electricity  direct  from  coal !  What  do  you  think  of  me 
now?"  And  he  sat  back  to  study  the  effect  of  his  dramatic  an- 
nouncement on  me.  I  felt  that  common  politeness  compelled 
pie  in  some  way  to  rise  to  the  occasion. 

"It  sounds  marvellous,"  I  said.     "Have  you  ever  done  it?" 

He  waved  this  question  aside  with  a  long  draft  of  stout. 
1  Not  yet,"  he  sputtered  through  the  brown  foam  on  his  mous- 
tache, "but  that  is  immaterial,  for  I  know  the  secret."  I  con- 
templated him  a  bit  ruefully,  wondering  if  the  hardheaded 
Knowlton  had  made  a  good  bargain  in  saddling  us  with  this. 

"You  doubt  me,"  he  remarked.     "That  is  because  you  do  not 


ENCOUNTER  WITH   PROSPERO         45 

know  me  yet.  Do  you  know" — suddenly  dropping  his  voice  to 
a  whisper — "I  am  not  convinced  yet  that  the  alchemist's 
search  for  the  philosopher's  stone  was  vain.  It  might  be  pos- 
sible— locked  within  the  element  radium  that  secret  lies.  And 
if  men  are  to  find  it  out,  I  shall  be  that  man." 

"Oh,  hell,  Mr.  Fougere!"  I  said  much  nettled,  "all  this  has 
very  little  to  do  with  the  chemistry  we  use  in  our  business." 

"True,  my  young  materialist,  true.  He  who  looks  straight 
before  his  nose  shall  see  but  the  dust.  My  gaze  is  among  the 
stars.  But  you  need  not  worry.  I  shall  give  you  and  your 
father  every  cent's  value  that  the  most  exacting  business  man 
could  ask  of  me.  If  you  care  nothing  for  my  true  brains  and 
want  only  my  routine  daily  labour,  that  will  be  your  loss — yet 
I  shall  not  hold  it  against  you.  Money  is  the  curse  of  the 
age." 

"Your  big  ideas  sound  reasonably  profitable,"  I  retorted,  "if 
you  pull  them  off.     How  would  you  escape  the  curse?" 

"I  can  use  money  wisely,  for  I  am  a  great  man.  If  I  were 
rich  I  should  cruise  in  the  South  Seas." 

"That  has  been  done  before,"  I  murmured. 

"I  shall  go  to  Tahiti  and  surround  myself  with  beautiful 
island  women.  There  I  will  build  the  world's  greatest  labora- 
tory and  search  for  the  philosopher's  stone  as  I  recline  against 
the  bronze  breasts  of  flower-decked  girls." 

I  meditated  a  moment  on  the  vision  he  had  conjured  up  and 
concluded  he  would  look  rather  well  in  the  part  as  outlined. 
Finally  I  ventured.  "Isn't  Tahiti  quite  an  out  of  the  way  place 
for  a  chemical  laboratory?  'Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than 
a  cycle  of  Cathay.'  " 

"I  do  not  agree  with  you.  The  hero  of  'Locksley  Hall'  was 
wrong.  He  but  reflected  sentimentally  the  materialism  of  the 
nineteenth  century." 

I  was  amused  to  have  my  quotation  recognized  by  him. 
What  was  this  strange  man,  and  what  had  he  done  with  himself 
in  the  world?  I  wondered  what  kind  of  chemist  he  would 
prove. 

"In  spite  of  your  youth,  Edward,  I  see  you  are,  like  me,  a 


46  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

thinker  and  philosopher;  on  a  lower  plane,  of  course,  yet  our 
minds  have  much  in  common." 

He  talked  after  a  fashion  of  the  characters  in  an  early 
Victorian  novel  or  a  transpontine  melodrama.  Where  could 
such  a  creature  have  obtained  the  skill  to  keep  consistently  his 
elaborate  pose?  I  wished  to  draw  him  out,  so  I  played  back 
to  him:  "I  find  the  world  a  mildly  amusing  place  and  always 
interesting  even  in  its  unpleasant  phases." 

"That  is  very  true,  Edward.  At  one  time  I  was  forced  by 
unusual  circumstances  to  apply  my  chemical  skill  to  the  making 
of  what  is  known  as  moonshine  whiskey.  This  was  in  the 
mountains  of  North  Carolina.  Here,  if  you  please,  was  one  of 
life's  unpleasant  phases — that  I,  of  all  men,  should  be  techni- 
cally classified  by  a  capitalistic  government  as  a  criminal  and 
hence  be  subjected  to  annoyances  from  internal  revenue 
minions.  Nevertheless,  I  was  profoundly  interested  in  the 
problems  involved  in  eluding  man-made  laws." 

He  bared  his  right  forearm;  across  the  drum-like  skin  ran  a 
long  seared  scar.  "That  was  as  near  as  the  law  came  to  me," 
he  said,  and  emptied  a  pony  of  brandy,  which  he  had  ordered 
as  soon  as  his  bottle  of  stout  was  empty.  I  made  an  effort  to 
stop  him  by  referring  to  the  early  hour  at  which  work  began 
at  the  factory.  There  was  as  yet  no  trace  of  thickness  in  his 
speech;  only  his  fiery  eyes  were  shining  more  and  more 
frrightly.  With  his  next  brandy  he  commanded  Welsh  rabbits 
and  chocolate  ice-cream.  Fortunately  he  made  no  attempt  to 
urge  me  to  keep  pace  with  him  in  drinking.  As  for  the  mor- 
row, he  dismissed  it  with  a  shrug. 

"I  work  neither  in  time  nor  in  space,  Edward.  My  ideas  are 
flashes — gleams — from  the  outer  Cosmos,  whence  time  is  not. 
When  they  come,  I  work;  when  they  don't,  I  await  the  signal." 

"It  sounds  like  an  irregular  schedule  to  follow,"  I  smiled. 

"When  the  hour  strikes,  I  shall  be  there,  Edward.  Waiter! 
Bring  me  another  brandy." 

From  this  time  on  he  began  to  get  thoroughly  drunk.  I 
could  only  sit  and  watch  hoping  that  ultimately  he  would  find 
his  way  home.     When  closing  time  came  he  wished  to  fight  the 


ENCOUNTER  WITH   PROSPERO         47 

entire  hotel  management  for  suggesting  that  he  leave.  At  last 
I  coaxed  him  to  go;  and,  strange  to  say,  I  was  not  once  in- 
cluded in  his  outbursts  of  rage.  Like  a  lamb  he  followed  me 
half  way  home;  and  then  another  whim  seized  him.  He  was 
determined  to  make  an  excursion  down  an  unsavoury  by-street 
whose  nature  he  recognized.  In  vain  I  sought  to  detain  him. 
I  reminded  him  that  half  the  night  was  gone  and  that  there  was 
work  to  do  tomorrow.  He  would  listen  to  no  word  of  mine, 
but,  wrenching  his  arm  free  from  me,  lurched  away.  Whether 
to  follow  or  not  I  was  undecided.  He  turned  into  an  alley  and 
disappeared.  The  streets  were  dark  and  deserted.  With  a 
final  imprecation  almost  as  picturesque  as  one  of  Prospero's 
own,  I  went  home  and  to  bed. 

At  six,  with  the  alarm  clock  still  clanging  in  my  ears,  I 
looked  into  his  bedroom.  Prospero  lay  across  the  bed  with 
most  of  his  clothes  on,  unconscious.  The  sleeve  of  his  left  arm 
was  rolled  up,  and  I  saw  that  the  skin  was  covered  with  small 
puncture  marks.  On  the  floor  a  hypodermic  syringe  and  his 
Russia  leather  wallet,  both  empty,  were  lying.  I  shook  him 
savagely,  but  a  groan  was  the  only  response.  Damning  Knowl- 
ton  for  thrusting  such  a  room-mate  upon  me,  I  went  out  to  the 
factory. 

Instead  of  going  to  work  I  sat  in  Knowlton's  office  waiting  for 
him  to  arrive.  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  have  the  case  of 
Prospero  out  with  him.  Promptly  at  eight  he  came,  bringing 
Prospero  with  him!  The  latter  was  as  fresh  appearing  and 
as  amiable  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  He  had  changed  his 
tweeds  for  a  long  frock  coat,  slightly  green  with  age,  and 
upon  his  head  was  a  silk  hat  of  a  famous  vintage. 

"Why,  Ted,  I'm  surprised  not  to  find  you  on  the  job  this 
morning,"  grinned  Knowlton.  "I'm  afraid  Mr.  de  Fougere 
kept  you  up  too  late  last  night.  Take  him  out  to  the  labora- 
tory, and  if  there's  anything  needed,  wire  New  York  to  ship  by 
express.  I'll  leave  you  two  authority  for  any  reasonable 
order." 

In  silence  and  deep  disgust  I  led  the  way.  As  we  entered  the 
laboratory  Prospero  glanced  about  with  an  appraising  eye. 


43  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"Very  good,  Teddy,  very  good.  A  well  equipped  little  work- 
shop," and  he  removed  hat  and  coat,  soaked  a  towel  in  fresh 
water,  wrung  it  out,  bound  it  about  his  head  without  further 
comment,  lit  a  cigarette  in  defiance  of  the  factory  rules  staring 
him  in  the  face,  and  sat  before  the  long  bench  table.  I  out- 
lined the  day's  work  and  explained  the  experiments  already  un- 
der way.  He  critically  picked  up  a  beaker  or  two,  sniffed  their 
contents,  and  squinted  at  a  rack  of  test  tubes.  I  waited  to  see 
what  would  happen  next.  Our  problem  was  one  requiring  a 
number  of  experiments  to  be  performed  in  sequence.  Among 
the  assets  of  our  firm  were  certain  new  chemical  patents  which 
were  not  yet  in  a  commercial  stage. 

De  Fougere  finished  his  cigarette  and  then  asked  to  see  the 
laboratory  diary  and  the  inventory  of  chemicals  on  hand. 
These  I  placed  in  his  hands.  He  smoked  another  cigarette  in 
silence  while  he  l'ooked  over  my  records. 

"You  appear  to  be  a  methodical  boy,  Teddy,"  he  remarked 
with  a  yawn,  at  the  same  time  choosing  a  Meissen  ware  dish  as 
an  ash  tray.  "I  can't  be  bothered  to  write  results  down.  I 
carry  them  stored  here,"  and  he  tapped  his  forehead. 

"All  very  well,"  I  replied,  "but  what  would  happen  if  you 
dropped  dead?" 

Prospero  smiled:  "That  is  impossible.  I  have  been  sent  to 
this  planet  to  do  a  great  work.  Not  until  all  the  world  rings 
with  the  name  de  Fougere  shall  I  pass  away.  When  that  time 
comes  I  may  pass,  like  Arthur,  into  the  deep.  I  have  seen  my 
death  in  dreams,  and  it  is  a  glorious  one.  There  is  no  fear 
of  my  falling  in  the  street." 

All  this  explanation  was  not  so  comforting  to  me  as  it  was  to 
him,  and  I  decided  to  add  his  records  to  mine,  as  far  as  it  was 
possible  to  get  them  from  observation  and  question.  Was  he 
a  megalomaniac,  or  was  his  ego  an  effect  of  drugs  upon  a  nerve- 
wracked  constitution?  Was  there  any  knowledge  accompany- 
ing this  colossal  conceit — this  ego-centrism  of  his? 

"I  grant  you,  Teddy,  that  last  evening  has  given  you  some 
cause  to  mistrust  me.  As  soon  as  this  headache  clears  from  my 
brain,  you  shall  see  and  marvel  at  the  true  de  Fougere.     You 


ENCOUNTER   WITH   PROSPERO         49 

imagine  I  am  often  as  you  saw  me  last  night?  You  are  wrong, 
young  man,  wrong.  That  is  the  body  of  de  Fougere  struggling 
for  freedom  from  the  mind  of  de  Fougere.  I  make  my  body 
so  completely  my  slave  that  at  times  it  revolts  and  demands 
such  food  as  drugs  and  flesh." 

I  was  fascinated  by  this  pompous  speech,  which  seemed  as 
if  it  had  been  written  out  beforehand  and  memorized.  A  hun- 
dred questions  were  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue.  Where  had  he 
acquired  this  language,  this  farrago  of  phrases  from  Godey's 
Ladies'  Magazine?  This  thought  kept  recurring  to  me  as 
the  most  inexplicable  of  all  the  strange  things  about  this  man. 
I  turned  to  my  morning's  work  and  abandoned  the  problem  of 
Prospero. 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  Knowlton's  room  at  the  Otooska 
House  and  laid  formal  complaint  against  de  Fougere.  Knowl- 
ton  grinned:  "It's  great  experience  for  you,  Teddy  boy.  You 
don't  meet  many  jewels  like  Prospero  at  your  pink  teas,  I 
guess.  So  he  hit  the  booze  and  worse,  in  spite  of  your  protests? 
Tut,  tut,  Teddy  that's  bad." 

"Not  only  that,  but  I  tell  you  he  uses  morphine,"  I  said,  net- 
tled by  the  way  Knowlton  took  my  story. 

"Our  contract  is  only  for  three  months,  Teddy,  and  he  has 
forgotten  more  chemistry  than  most  people  will  ever  know. 
Now,  Ted,  keep  your  hair  on.  I'm  simply  gambling  on  a  l'ong 
chance.  If  we  keep  him  fairly  straight  for  three  months,  he 
can  be  mightily  useful.  If  we  don't,  we  are  only  out  three 
months'  salary  for  him.  He  spent  two  months'  of  it  last  night, 
which  pretty  well  guarantees  us  against  further  blow-ups.  I 
wanted  to  pay  him  the  whole  three  in  advance,  but  the  old 
devil  was  too  foxy  to  take  it,"  Knowlton  added  reflectively. 

Light  began  to  dawn  upon  me.  "So  you  encouraged  him  to 
take  that  tear  last  night?" 

"Surest  thing  you  know.  I  thought  it  would  be  well  to  get 
it  out  of  his  system  at  the  start.  It  has  been  some  time  since 
he  has  seen  that  much  money.  He  didn't  get  you  stewed,  did 
he,  Ted?" 


50  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"No,"  I  said  shortly.     Knowlton  grinned. 

"You  sound  like  a  hang  over,  but  perhaps  it's  only  your 
moral  sense,  Teddy." 

"The  point  is,  have  I  got  to  have  a  drug  fiend  as  a  room- 
mate?" 

"I'm  afraid  so,  Teddy.  We  must  keep  as  much  of  an  eye  on 
him  as  possible.  He  believes  you  innocent  and  guileless;  and 
he'll  talk  more  freely  to  you  than  to  me." 

"Talk  freely!  Great  heavens!  I  should  think  he  did! 
That's  one  of  the  things  I  complain  of.  Perhaps  you  think  it 
amusing  to  listen  to  a  crazy  man  talk  about  himself  night  and 
day." 

Upon  my  return  to  my  quarters  I  found  Prospero,  in  velvet 
jacket,  cap,  and  slippers,  smoking  a  peculiar  pipe  of  a  great 
size.  It  was  his  instinct  to  wear  a  suitable  costume  for  every- 
thing he  did,  even  for  pipe  smoking.  An  old  cash  ledger  lay 
open  before  him,  and  in  this  he  was  writing  with — trust  Pros- 
pero for  a  dramatic  effect — a  quill  pen!  He  frowned  at  me 
as  I  entered  and  growled  "Silence!"  Somewhat  bored  and 
more  irritated,  I  lit  a  candle  which  I  had  bought  for  sealing 
documents,  set  it  down  on  the  table  by  his  book,  and  put  out 
the  desk  light.  "I'll  make  his  damned  scene  complete,"  I 
thought. 

"I  thank  you,  Edward,"  he  boomed  at  me.  "Candle-light  is 
less  fatiguing  to  the  eye.  You  are  very  thoughtful."  He 
scratched  abominably  with  his  quill,  which  I  suspected  he  did 
not  know  how  to  use.  I  endeavoured  to  read  and  watch  his 
melodrama  at  the  same  time. 

"Edward,  do  you  know  what  I  am  writing?" 

I  rejoiced  inwardly  at  this,  for  I  was  certain  that  my  literal 
interpretation  of  his  injunction  to  silence  would  prove  irksome 
to  him  in  the  end. 

"A  treatise  on  chemistry?"  I  suggested.  "Or  perhaps  a 
monograph  on  one  of  the  rare  elements?" 

"Wrong,  Edward,  wrong  again.  I  am  writing  the  philoso- 
phy." 

"The  philosophy?"  I  queried. 


ENCOUNTER   WITH   PROSPERO         51 

"I  call  it  the  philosophy,  for  it  is  the  only  true  one.  I  am 
the  only  man  who  can  explain  mind  and  matter — of  what  the 
universe  is  made — why  it  is,  and  what  the  nature  of  the  Su- 
preme Being  is." 

"What  is  the  universe?"  I  ventured,  hoping  to  draw  him 
out.  Mental  hallucinations  were  novelties  to  me  at  that  time, 
and  for  once  Prospero  had  interested  me. 

"The  universe,  Edward,  is  a  complex  chemical  equation 
which  I  am  solving.  On  one  side  of  this  equation  you  have 
material  manifestations  of  energy ;  on  the  other,  the  manifesta- 
tions which  we  call  mind  and  spirit." 

"I  think  I  have  heard  something  like  this  before,"  I  said, 
a  little  disappointed. 

"The  germ  of  my  philosophy,  Edward,  is  to  be  found  in  Con- 
fucius and  repeats  itself  again  in  the  sayings  attributed  to 
Buddha." 

"Indeed?" 

"Positive  matter  is  the  male  essence;  negative  matter,  the 
female.  The  ultimate  quintessence  emanating  from  the  su- 
preme source  is  a  wave  vibration  independent  of  time  and 
space.  As  this  travels  outward  through  the  atoms  and  mole- 
cules of  the  ultimate  solid — these  atoms  and  molecules  which 
we  call  stars  and  planets  and  which  compose  this  solid — the 
combinations  between  these  positive  and  negative  ions  or 
wave  vibrations  produce  the  varying  manifestations  of  mind 
and  matter.  They  are  all  self-perpetuating,  yet  always  pass- 
ing into  new  forms.  Thus  matter  begets  matter;  thought, 
thought." 

"It  sounds  as  plausible  as  any  explanation,"  I  said  politely, 
turning  over  a  page  of  my  book.  "I'm  going  to  bed,"  and 
I  shut  myself  up  in  my  bedroom.  I  had  had  philosophy 
enough  for  one  evening. 

For  a  week  or  ten  days  Prospero  worked  steadily  and  amaz- 
ingly in  the  laboratory.  He  did  his  experiments  with  skill, 
ease,  and  rapidity;  furthermore,  he  put  no  obstacles  in  the  way 
of  my  keeping  full  records  of  his  work.     One  day,  however, 


52  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

when  he  returned  in  the  afternoon  he  was  much  depressed. 
His  cigarette  reappeared  upon  his  lower  lip  and  he  spilt  its 
ashes  into  various  mixtures,  until,  in  a  rage,  he  hurled  an  egg- 
shell Bohemian  glass  beaker  partly  full  of  nitric  acid  into  a  far 
corner  of  the  room.  By  acting  promptly  I  saved  the  factory 
from  a  fire  and  the  room  from  any  serious  damage.  Prospero 
contemplated  me  gloomily  when  I  had  finished  clearing  up  his 
mess. 

"That's  a  little  too  risky  to  be  funny,"  I  rebuked  him,  with 
pardonable  annoyance.  "It's  all  right  to  have  nerves  for  one's 
personal  pleasure,  but  endangering  company  property  is  an- 
other matter." 

His  reply  was  a  series  of  picturesque  and  obscene  oaths. 
The  final  intimation  was  that  the  next  time  I  might  expect 
nitric  acid  or  worse  at  my  head,  instead  of  at  a  corner  of  the 
room.  He  flatly  refused  to  continue  any  more  experiments 
that  afternoon  and  sat  until  six  o'clock  watching  a  flickering 
electric  current  passing  through  a  vacuum  tube.  I  reported 
the  situation  to  Knowlton  at  the  office. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it,  Ted?"    Knowlton  asked. 

"Getting  ready  to  shoot  himself  full  of  morphine,  I  take  it." 

"He  hasn't  any  money." 

"I  think  he  probably  has  a  reserve  supply  of  the  drug — a 
fiend  isn't  likely  to  be  without  it." 

"H'm,"  mused  Knowlton.  "I  wish  we  could  search  his 
baggage.  Here,  Ted,  you'd  better  have  this  in  case  of  emer- 
gency," and  Knowlton  took  a  revolver  from  his  desk  and  of- 
fered it  to  me.     I  laughed. 

"You  are  getting  as  melodramatic  as  old  Prospero  himself. 
Thank  you  just  the  same,  but  I  never  use  them,"  and  I  handed 
it  back. 

"If  he  should  take  a  dislike  to  you,  look  out,  Ted.  Let  me 
know  if  it  continues.  Paranoia  is  not  a  disease  to  ignore 
lightly." 

"Paranoia?"     I  gasped  in  surprise. 

"Sure.     He's  got  all  the  symptoms — big  head  and  the  rest." 


ENCOUNTER  WITH   PROSPERO         53 

Evening  brought  the  explanation.  It  was  not  quite  so  bad 
as  we  had  surmised.  Upon  entering  my  study  I  found  a  stout 
middle-aged  woman  seated  there,  fanning  herself  with  a  palm 
leaf  fan.  I  was  taken  aback,  I  confess  it,  and  at  a  loss  for 
words.  She  saved  me  the  trouble  by  saying,  "Now,  dearie, 
don't  you  worry  about  me.  I'm  waiting  for  Mr.  de  Fougere. 
I'm  his  wife." 

"Yes?"     I  faltered.     "Pray  make  yourself  at  home." 

"You  can  trust  me  to  do  that,  dearie,  no  matter  where  I  am. 
I've  slept  twenty-five  seasons  in  a  tourist  Pullman  car.  Home 
is  where  I  find  it,  I  always  say." 

"Twenty-five  seasons  in  a  Pullman?"  My  fatal  curiosity 
was  leading  me  into  conversation  in  spite  of  myself. 

"Yes,  dearie,  with  the  greatest  show  on  earth.  Ain't  you 
never  heard  of  la  belle  Helene? — well,  that's  me — Risley  act — 
I've  been  everything  from  the  apex  to  the  base  of  the  human 
pyramid." 

"Good  God,"  I  thought,  "the  circus  woman !  What  on  earth 
shall  we  do  now?"     I  sat  down  rather  suddenly. 

"When  do  you  expect  John  home?  I  sent  him  a  telegraph 
I  was  coming  this  noon,  but  the  skunk  didn't  meet  me  to  the 
depot  as  I  told  him.  Left  me  to  find  my  way  as  best  may  be, 
the  dirty  hound!  But  I'll  fix  him!"  and  she  fanned  herself 
vigorously,  for  her  emotion  caused  her  profuse  perspiration. 
"Has  he  been  boozing  again?"  she  continued. 

"Mr.  de  Fougere  should  be  here  now,"  I  said  uneasily.  "I 
can't  think  what's  keeping  him." 

"Well,  I  can!"  she  announced  with  vigour.  "He  always  gets 
drunk  when  he  knows  I'm  coming — the  coward!" 

I  thought  it  took  some  courage  to  drink  with  certain  punish- 
ment waiting  at  the  other  end.  Here  was  more  than  a  mere 
headache. 

"I  suppose  you're  Teddy — just  the  age  my  oldest  boy  was 
when  he  made  his  first  hit — I  trained  him  myself.  John  has 
written  me  all  about  you.  You  won't  mind  me  calling 
you  Teddy? — I  just  have  to  mother  something  or  I'm  all  at 
sea." 


54  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

The  conversation  was  taking  an  alarmingly  intimate  turn. 
At  this  opportune  moment  Prospero's  voice  was  heard  upon  the 
stairs,  carolling  at  the  top  of  his  lungs  "Rolling  down  to  Rio." 

"That's  him,"  said  the  ex-gymnast,  getting  elaborately  upon 
her  feet,  "and  he's  pie-eyed!" 

There  was  no  exit  through  which  I  could  retreat;  Prospero's 
entrance  would  be  by  the  only  door.  I  lacked  spirit  to  make 
a  sudden  dash  by  him.  He  arrived  in  the  middle  of  the 
chorus,  his  silk  hat,  ruffled,  over  one  ear. 

"This  is  a  nice  way  to  meet  me,  ain't  it?  And  you  call  your- 
self a  man!"  was  his  greeting. 

"Woman,  I  defy  you!"  he  challenged,  "In  the  name  of  my 
ancestor,  Charles  Martel,  King  of  France!" 

"Go  on,  you  drunken  fool!  You  ain't  no  more  French 
than  what  I  am,  except  for  your  name,  which  is  a  fake,  same 
as  my  stage  name." 

I  edged  toward  the  door,  having  stealthily  secured  my  hat. 

"You  stay  right  where  you  are,  Teddy  dearie,"  the  virago 
commanded.  "John  and  me  ain't  got  no  secrets  what  can't  be 
shouted  from  the  house-tops,  and  he  knows  it.  You  stay  and 
see  justice  done  a  poor  old  woman." 

I  apologetically  referred  to  an  engagement.     It  was  no  use. 

"I  want  a  witness  to  my  treatment — I'm  his  legally,  law- 
fully wedded  wife,  and  he  deserts  me — and  sends  me  no  money 
— and  gets  drunk  to  my  face.  If  there's  justice  on  this 
earth,  I'll  have  the  law  on  him." 

"Woman,  you  lie!"  thundered  John.  "You're  not  my  wife 
and  never  was.  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  you,"  he  hiccupped. 
"You've  ruined  my  life,"  and  he  sat  heavily  in  a  chair,  being 
now  in  the  maudlin  stage.  Yet  his  dramatic  instinct  did  not 
desert  him.     He  was  a  fine  picture  of  despair  as  he  sat  there. 

"Wilt  you  listen  to  him  denying  his  own  kith  and  kin,"  she 
shrieked. 

"Insult  me  before  my  friend — go  on,  woman,"  moaned 
Prospero.     "Poison  the  mind  of  youth  against  me." 

"Poison  your  grandfather — I  wish  I  had  when  he  was  a  boy, 


ENCOUNTER   WITH   PROSPERO         55 

and  I  wouldn't  be  troubled  with  you  now,"  was  her  subtle  re- 
partee to  this. 

"I  shall  not  lower  myself  to  retort  that  you  are  old  enough 
to  have  had  your  wish" — Prospero  uttered  this  dispassionately 
and  with  hardly  an  alcoholic  stumble.  There  I  was  anxious  to 
leave  them,  but  the  lady  chose  this  opening  for  peculiarly 
noisy  hysterics.  I  brought  her  a  glass  of  water;  she  knocked 
it  from  my  hands,  smashing  the  glass  to  fragments. 

"Better  let  May  have  it  out  by  herself;  it  is  easiest  in  the 
end,"  muttered  Prospero.  "Edward,  when  you  learn  to  know 
the  way  of  a  woman  with  a  man,  you  will  lose  all  concern. 
She  may  do  this  for  hours." 

The  latter  statement  caused  me  to  flee.  I  went  to  the 
Otooska  House  and  sought  out  Knowlton.  He  listened  to  my 
tale  of  woe  with  his  customary  grin.  "Don't  worry,  Teddy," 
he  said  when  I  had  finished,  "she  may  prove  a  Godsend. 
He'll  have  something  besides  himself  to  think  about  now." 

"But,  man  alive,  they  are  in  my  rooms.  I  can't  go  on  living 
there  with  the  pair  of  them  on  my  hands." 

"Are  you  disturbed  because  of  the  proprieties?" 

"Not  entirely,"  I  snapped.  "Married  or  not,  I  don't  care — 
but  one  drug  fiend  plus  hysterics  and  broken  crockery  is  more 
than  I  will  stand." 

"I'll  move  them  in  the  morning,"  and  that  was  the  best  com- 
promise I  could  get. 

Not  a  sound  greeted  my  return.  The  lights  in  the  study 
were  out,  the  bedroom  door  closed,  and  all  was  apparently 
peace.  With  many  inward  maledictions  on  my  companions 
I  went  to  bed. 

The  six-o'clock  alarm  brought  me  with  a  start  out  of  a  sound 
sleep.  As  usual  I  dashed  for  a  shower  in  the  bathroom,  to 
reach  which  I  had  to  cross  my  study.  To  my  consternation  I 
encountered  la  belle  Helene,  in  flesh  coloured  tights  and  little 
else,  violently  exercising  in  the  centre  of  the  room  with  heavy 
dumbbells. 

"Don't  mind  me,  dearie,"  she  said  sweetly.     "I'm  just  having 


56  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

my  morning  bracer.     I  get  so  fleshy  if  I  don't  keep  trained." 

"Heaven  forbid  her  from  getting  any  heavier,"  I  thought,  as 
I  ducked  by.  Upon  my  return  I  knocked  on  the  door;  the 
study  was  again  empty. 

I  looked  forward  to  the  day's  work  with  horror.  Prospero 
came  punctually  at  seven  and  la  belle  Helene  with  him!  The 
latter,  I  was  told,  had  often  assisted  him  and  knew  how  to  keep 
chemical  apparatus  clean  and  do  many  simple  routine  things. 
Prospero  appeared  resigned  to  his  fate,  and  the  three  of  us 
worked  briskly  and  for  the  most  part  in  silence. 

"I  always  hold  a  man  hasn't  any  sense  with  dishes,"  she 
said  early  in  the  proceedings,  "even  with  these  chemical  things. 
Just  as  like  as  not  you  two  will  get  things  all  mussed  up.  My 
land,  how  that  one  does  smell!  Why  you  don't  poison  your- 
selves I  never  could  see." 

Knowlton  called  upon  us  at  eleven  after  he  had  finished  the 
morning's  mail  and  was  formally  introduced  to  la  belle  Helene. 
Curiosity  had  evidently  overpowered  him.  He  kept  a  solemn 
face,  but  his  eyes  twinkled  during  the  ceremony  of  introduction. 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  la  belle  Helene  to  him.  "So 
you  are  John  and  Teddy's  boss?  My,  you  are  a  young-looking 
man  to  be  running  a  factory  like  this.  Nice  seasonable 
weather,  ain't  it?  Nice  location  out  here,  too,  where  you  can 
see  the  lake  from  the  windows.  I  always  did  like  a  nice  view. 
I  always  say  it  makes  a  lot  of  difference  what  kind  of  a  place 
you  got  to  work  in.  In  my  business  you  can't  be  particular, 
though." 

"I'm  glad  you  are  so  favourably  impressed  with  us,"  smiled 
Knowlton. 

"My  land,  I'm  used  to  anything  after  the  life  I've  had. 
Brought  up  three  boys  to  my  business — one  on  'em's  been  in 
vaudeville  in  Europe — I  ain't  heard  from  him  in  ten  years, 
That's  just  like  boys — off  they  go.  Girls  is  more  consoling, 
so  they  say.  I  ain't  never  had  no  experience  with  girls.  Boys 
is  trouble  enough.  Take  things  as  they  come,  that's  my  motto 
every  time.     Home  is  where  you  find  it,  I  always  say." 

Knowlton  excused  himself  and  departed. 


ENCOUNTER  WITH   PROSPERO         57 


Knovrlton  kept  his  word  in  a  measure.  Prospero  and  his 
companion  were  moved  to  a  little  two-room  apartment  on  the 
floor  above,  and  I  was  left  in  undisputed  sway  over  my  study. 
After  they  had  been  settled  in  the  new  abode,  Knowlton 
dropped  in  to  see  me. 

"Business  is  not  in  good  shape,  Ted,"  he  said,  lighting  his 
cigar.  "I've  been  all  over  our  orders  and  books  and  found  we 
are  operating  on  too  close  a  margin  of  capital.  We  have 
more  orders  than  we  have  machines  or  cash  to  handle." 

"That  seems  a  strange  difficulty  to  me.  We  are  too  prosper- 
ous.    Is  this  the  Senegambian  you  were  looking  for?" 

"Exactly.  Our  friend  Norwood,  who  sold  us  the  business, 
1'oaded  the  books  with  orders  to  make  a  good  showing.  Now 
he  has  got  out,  and  deliveries  are  up  to  us.  Frankly,  we 
haven't  cash  enough  to  swing  it." 

"What  is  the  trouble  just  now?" 

"We  can't  meet  Saturday's  payroll — we  haven't  enough  at 
the  bank.  There's  a  big  payment  due  us  on  a  complete  con- 
tract. If  that  comes  in  by  Saturday  noon  we  are  O.  K.  If  not, 
the  bank  has  got  to  see  us  through;  and  that's  where  you 
come  in  again,  Ted.  I'm  going  to  send  you  to  talk  to  the  bank 
president." 

"Why  me?"  I  protested.  "Wouldn't  he  pay  more  attention 
to  you?** 

"It'6  just  a  hunch  of  mine,  Teddy,  and  it'll  be  a  good 
experience  for  you.  If  you  don't  get  away  with  it,  I'll  try 
my  hand." 

Saturday  noon  was  an  exciting  hour.  The  mail  came  at 
twelve;  the  men  had  to  be  paid  off,  in  cash,  at  one.  I  had  just 
sixty  minutes  to  find  out  whether  we  pulled  through  or  closed 
down.  The  post  office  was  on  the  corner  of  State  Street  and 
the  Park,  the  latter  a  large  unkempt  square  with  a  feeble  foun- 
tain and  some  fine  old  trees.  I  had  made  an  appointment  with 
the  president  of  the  Deep  Harbor  National  Bank  for  twelve- 


58  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

fifteen.  A  little  before  twelve  I  stood  on  the  post  office  steps, 
with  the  key  to  the  firm's  box  in  my  hand,  waiting  for  the  mail 
to  be  sorted.  In  my  inner  pocket  was  a  statement  of  our  re- 
sources and  a  list  of  our  contracts. 

The  post  office  at  noon  was  a  famous  gathering  place  for  the 
citizenry  of  Deep  Harbor.  In  front  were  a  line  of  horses  and 
buggies  hitched  to  posts.  The  owners  congregated  mostly  on 
the  steps,  chewing  toothpicks  and  gossiping.  Bootblacks  and 
newspaper  boys  plied  their  trades.  Every  one  seemed  to  know 
every  one  else,  and  each  new  comer  was  hailed  by  his  first  name 
or  otherwise  familiarly  greeted.  I  felt  that  a  stranger  was  at  a 
great  disadvantage  in  trying  to  conduct  a  factory  in  such  an  in- 
bred community.  Not  one  of  all  those  men  knew  me  or  nodded 
to  me.  Yet  I  judged  from  the  glances  directed  my  way  and 
the  whispers  that  many  at  least  knew  who  I  was.  Knowlton 
had  told  me  that  the  new  owners  of  the  factory  had  been  the 
subject  of  many  rumours.  It  was  believed  we  were  a  blind  for 
one  of  the  large  corporations  about  to  begin  operations  in  Deep 
Harbor  on  a  vast  scale. 

At  last  the  mail  was  ready,  and  I  opened  our  box.  Running 
through  the  pile  of  letters,  I  saw  that  the  check  was  not  there. 
First  I  telephoned  Knowlton,  then  crossed  the  street  to  the  Deep 
Harbor  National  Bank,  a  small  box-like  building  built  entirely 
of  white  marble  in  vague  resemblance  to  a  miniature  Greek 
temple.  My  card  was  unnecessary.  The  president  was  seated, 
for  all  the  world  to  see,  behind  a  low  mahogany  railing  before 
a  high  mahogany  desk.  He  called  me  by  name  at  my  entrance 
and  invited  me  inside  his  pen.  There  was  nothing  formidable 
in  his  appearance.  My  imagination  had  pictured  the  bank 
president  of  the  stage,  an  elderly  gentleman  with  white  side 
whiskers,  white  spats,  a  sanctimonious  air,  and  a  terrible  cal- 
lousness in  driving  financial  bargains.  Instead,  I  beheld  a 
genial  young  man  of  thirty-eight  to  forty  with  a  genial  expres- 
sion on  his  face.  His  face  was  tanned,  his  hair,  just  turning 
grey  at  the  temples,  was  neatly  smoothed  down.  The  eyes 
were  a  little  too  small,  almost  pig-like,  in  fact;  nevertheless 


ENCOUNTER  WITH   PROSPERO        59 

his  pleasant  smile  counteracted  the  unfavourable  impression 
which  his  eyes  would  otherwise  have  made. 

"Have  a  cigar,  Edward?"  were  his  opening  words  to  me. 
The  use  of  my  Christian  name  encouraged  me,  for  it  seemed  to 
imply  that  I  had  been  admitted  to  citizenship  in  good  standing. 
I  accepted  the  greasy,  aromatic  cigar,  although  I  feared  a  cigar 
before  luncheon  would  be  disastrous.  There  seemed,  however, 
no  escape  in  Deep  Harbor  from  the  offer  of  a  cigar  as  a  pre- 
liminary to  any  business  discussion.  As  we  lighted  up  and  the 
sickeningly  fragrant  smoke  oozed  through  my  nervous  system, 
he  looked  keenly  at  me  and  said:  "Well,  Edward,  what  can  we 
do  for  you?  Money,  I  suppose,"  and  he  glanced  at  the  clock. 
"You  have  about  forty  minutes  in  which  to  meet  your  payroll. 
Am  I  right?" 

"Absolutely!"  I  answered  promptly.  "And  here's  the  rea- 
son why  you'll  meet  the  payroll  for  us,"  and  I  handed  him 
our  statement.  He  then  did  a  slightly  theatrical  thing  which, 
I  suppose,  the  role  of  bank  president  required;  it  was  to  pro- 
duce a  pair  of  tortoise  shell  goggle  spectacles  and  study  our 
statement  through  them.  I  stared  about  at  the  onyx  and 
bronze  trimmings  of  the  little  building  and  secretly  wished  I 
could  lose  the  cigar. 

'These  contracts  look  all  right  on  paper,  Edward,  but  you 
people  haven't  equipment  enough  to  put  them  through." 

"I  don't  imagine  that  we  are  the  first  people  who  have  come 
to  you  because  we  are  too  prosperous — not  in  a  growing  town 
like  Deep  Harbor,"  I  remarked,  surprised  at  my  own  diplo- 
macy. 

"That's  true  enough,  Edward.  But  the  way  I  look  at  it  is 
this.  These  contracts  were  made  by  your  predecessors.  If 
you  don't  make  good  on  them  you  won't  get  any  more,  and  you 
can't  make  good  with  your  present  plant.  The  friend  who 
sold  you  the  plant,  about  whom  I  happen  to  know  a  lot,  over- 
sold you.     In  short,  you  were  stung." 

"What's  to  be  done?"     I  asked,  rising. 

"Sit  down,  Edward,"  he  replied.     "Is  there  any  truth  in  this 


60  I  WALKED  IN  ARDEN 

story  that  a  big  corporation  is  behind  you?  I  want  brass 
tacks." 

"There's  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it.  We  are  just  what  our 
books  show  us  to  be." 

He  smiled  and  chewed  his  cigar.  "That's  what  I  thought 
you  would  say,"  he  chuckled.     "What  security  do  you  offer?" 

"Our  notes  at  thirty  days  backed  by  the  contracts  which  you 
will  take  over  if  we  fall  down." 

"Not  good  enough,  Edward.     You  must  put  up  the  pl'ant." 

With  this  he  handed  me  the  telephone  which  stood  on  his 
desk.  I  got  through  to  Knowlton  at  the  office,  the  while  my 
financier-friend  watched  and  listened.  In  the  end,  we  had  no 
option  but  to  give  way. 

I  left  his  office  with  our  Saturday's  payroll  in  a  canvas  bag, 
and  I  left  behind  a  memorandum  concerning  the  mortgage  and 
security  to  be  formally  put  up  as  soon  as  Knowlton  could  get 
down  town. 


Chapter  Five 

i  enter  deep   harbor   society 

<  *T~\ ON'T  you  think  it  is  about  time  we  got  to  know  some  of 

I  the  important  people  in  town — social  stuff — country 

club  and  so  on?"  said  Knowlton  one  evening  as  he 

looked  at  me  through  his  cigar  smoke  with  one  of  his  quizzical 

grins. 

"I'm  not  very  keen  about  it,"  I  growled,  for  I  was  tired  and 
sulky  from  a  hard  day,  and  Deep  Harbor  was  resting  some- 
what heavily  upon  my  nerves.  "We've  been  here  three  months 
now,  and  not  a  solitary  person  has  spoken  to  us  except  in  the 
way  of  business." 

Knowlton  went  on:  "Still,  I  think  it's  bad  business  to  keep 
away  from  them;  we've  got  to  know  them.  They  haven't 
chased  after  us,  so  we  must  chase  after  them." 

"Is  there  ever  any  other  motive  in  your  mind  than  a  business 
one?"  I  exploded  in  disgust.  This  merely  produced  a  par- 
ticularly fiendish  grin  from  Knowlton. 

"Little  inclined  to  kick  over  the  traces  tonight,  aren't  you, 
Ted?  I  don't  blame  you.  You've  had  too  long  a  dose  without 
the  right  kind  of  relaxation.  There  must  be  plenty  of  nice 
people  here  if  we  could  only  get  in  touch  with  them.  Better 
get  out  your  Tuxedo  and  have  it  pressed.  We'll  open  a  social 
campaign." 

I  paid  little  attention  to  Knowlton's  latest  plan;  he  was  full 
of  new  schemes  each  day,  all  aimed  at  extending  the  scope  of 
our  business  connections.  Several  days  passed,  and,  as  I 
heard  no  more  of  his  calculated  social  ambitions,  I  concluded 
thai  pressure  of  more  important  affairs  had  mercifully  ex- 
cluded this  new  idea  from  his  mind.  Then  one  afternoon  my 
call  sounded  on  the  buzzer,  and  I  reported  at  the  office. 

Knowlton  greeted  me  with  the  customary  grin.  "Busy  out 
in  the  laboratory?" 

61 


62  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"No  more  than  usual,"  I  replied  noncommittally.  I  had 
learned  that  when  Knowlton  introduced  a  subject  with  a  pre- 
lude of  this  kind  it  usually  meant  extra  work  was  about  to  be 
proposed. 

"No  experiment  that  will  keep  you  this  evening?"  he  queried. 
Should  I  start  one  as  a  measure  of  self -protection  and  then  say 
"Yes,"  or  should  I  chance  whatever  new  plan  Knowlton  had  on 
foot  and  step  into  his  obvious  trap?  I  decided  on  the  latter 
course  for  the  sake  of  variety. 

"No,"  I  answered.     "I  shall  close  down  with  the  whistle." 

"Good.  Then  I  have  a  dinner  invitation  for  you — now,  you 
are  to  go,  Ted,  it's  no  use  putting  your  back  up.  IVe  practi- 
cally accepted." 

"Are  you  going?"  I  asked  suspiciously. 

"Why  no,  Ted,  I'm  not.  In  the  first  place  I  haven't  been  in- 
vited ;  and,  second,  they  are  not  so  much  in  my  line." 

"Who,  where,  when?"  I  tried  to  make  this  scornfully  ironic, 
but  I  only  drew  a  broader  grin  than  before  from  Knowlton. 

"You  owe  the  honour  of  this  invitation  to  Mr.  Hemphill,  of 
our  office  staff." 

I  snorted,  this  time  with  anger. 

"That  fat  old  bore!"     I  exclaimed. 

Knowlton  interrupted  me.  "Hush,  Teddy.  While  I  recog- 
nize a  certain  truth  in  your  description,  still  you  are  to  know 
that  our  Mr.  Hemphill,  although  hard  up,  belongs  to  one  of  the 
first  families  of  Deep  Harbor.  His  wife  helps  run  the  social 
plant  in  this  burg — she's  superintendent  of  it,  in  fact,  and  issues 
or  cancels  all  permits  to  circulate  through  the  labyrinth.  I've 
only  recently  made  this  important  discovery.  Hence  your  bid 
to  dinner."     Knowlton  grinned  triumphantly. 

Hemphill  was  a  particularly  disagreeable  figure  in  the  outer 
office,  for  he  always  buttonholed  one  to  listen  to  a  tiresome 
anecdote. 

"It's  the  wife,  Ted,  who  runs  the  works — not  old  Charlie.  I 
agree  with  you  about  him.  Believe  me,  he's  kept  on  his  good 
behaviour  at  home."  Knowlton  pressed  his  buzzer.  "I'll 
have  him  in  and  tell  him  you've  accepted." 


I   ENTER   DEEP   HARBOR   SOCIETY         63 

I  saw  it  was  useless  to  protest.  Hemphill  appeared  at  the 
door,  and  I  looked  more  closely  than  heretofore  at  my  prospec- 
tive host.  Across  his  fat  red  face  there  spread  an  oily  smite 
which  sank  on  each  side  into  a  coarse  iron-grey  stubble.  His 
forehead  was  high  and  greasy  above  two  small  blue  eyes,  be- 
neath which  were  pouches  of  red  skin.  His  hair,  stiff  and  grey 
like  the  growth  on  his  face,  was  worn  pompadour  and  trimmed 
to  make  his  head  appear  flat  on  top.  Over  the  most  conspicu- 
ously Falstaflian  detail  of  his  anatomy  hung  a  heavy  gold  watch 
chain  carrying  many  seals  indicative  of  his  membership  in 
fraternal  organizations.  In  the  lapel  of  his  coat  was  an  en- 
ameled button  as  further  proof  of  his  fellowship. 

"Mr.  Hemphill,"  said  Knowlton,  "Ted  accepts  with  pleasure 
your  invitation  to  dine  at  your  house  this  evening." 

"That's  fine,  Mr.  Jevons,"  he  replied.  "That  certainly  helps 
us  out  of  a  hole."  I  pricked  up  my  ears.  "Mrs.  Hemphill  was 
terrible  put  out  because  one  of  her  regular  young  men  was 
called  to  Pittsburgh  to  look  after  a  pig-iron  contract.  His  going 
kind  of  bust  up  the  dinner  party.  I  didn't  think  it  mattered 
much  myself,  but  you  know  what  women  are  about  such  things. 
Wouldn't  do  to  have  one  of  the  girls  left  without  a  beau,  so  I 
says,  to  make  peace  in  the  family,  'How  about  asking  young 
Teddy  out  to  the  works?'  Of  course  Sally — that's  my  wife — 
didn't  care  much  about  ringing  in  a  stranger  that  way,  but  I 
said  to  her,  says  I,  'Shucks,  Teddy's  all  right — nice,  quiet  boy, 
European  education,  and  quite  a  swell  where  he  comes  from, 
according  to  what  I've  heard.'  Well,  that  sort  of  quieted  her. 
and  finally  she  says  to  me — 'Go  ahead  and  ask  him.  I  can't 
have  my  dinner  party  spoiled.'  So  that's  how  I  came  to  put 
the  proposition  up  to  you,"  he  concluded. 

I  saw  Knowlton  playing  with  his  paper  knife  and  making 
desperate  efforts  not  to  catch  my  eye  or  grin.  My  indignation 
all  but  boiled  over. 

"I'm  deeply  flattered" — I  began,  but  at  this  point  Knowlton 
pressed  his  buzzer.  A  stenographer  hurried  in.  "Get  me  New 
York  on  the  'phone,"  he  commanded.  "That's  all,  Teddy.  Be 
there  at  quarter  of  seven,"  and  both  Hemphill  and  I  found  our- 


64  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

selves  dismissed  without  further  ceremony.  I  surrendered  in 
despair.  What  was  the  use  of  righting?  But  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  be  so  silent  a  partner  in  the  evening's  proceedings  that 
never  again  would  my  services  be  in  demand  for  filling  a 
gap  at  a  dinner  table.  Really  my  rage  at  being  patronized  by 
such  people  made  my  hands  shake  so  that  my  work  in  the  lab- 
oratory  was  useless  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon.  I  tingled  all 
over  and  longed  for  some  way  to  square  the  score.  I  was  going 
to  my  first  dinner  party  in  Deep  Harbor  like  a  man  from 
Blankley's — practically  hired  out  for  the  evening. 

I  left  at  ten  minutes  before  six  to  allow  myself  a  larger  mar- 
gin for  dressing.  I  stopped  at  the  office,  but  the  wise  Knowlton. 
had  eluded  me  by  going  home  at  half-past  five.  There  was  no 
one  with  whom  I  could  lodge  a  final  protest. 

I  dressed  in  a  savage  mood.  Many  caustic  epigrams  oc- 
curred to  me  as  I  brushed  my  hair.  I,  hoped  I  could  remember 
them  for  later  use  that  evening.  One  never  can  remember  a  re- 
hearsed conversation;  it's  like  trying  to  use  a  handy  phrase- 
book  in  a  foreign  country.  The  other  side  never  leads  up  to 
one's  cues.  At  last  I  was  ready,  and  punctually  at  a  quarter 
before  seven  I  presented  myself  before  the  door  of  a  large  old- 
fashioned  house  set  amid  the  maples  of  Myrtle  Boulevard, 
Deep  Harbor's  most  fashionable  residential  street.  The  house 
had  been  built,  I  judged,  about  or  immediately  after  the  period 
of  the  Civil  War.  It  was  square,  with  a  door  in  the  middle 
flanked  on  either  side  by  long  oval -topped  windows.  Project- 
ing from  the  door  and  coming  to  meet  one  in  a  flight  of  brown 
stone  steps,  was  a  porch  heavily  ornamented  with  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  Turco-Bulgarian  style  of  design.  In  any 
event,  this  feature  of  the  house  was  compounded  of  strange 
samples  of  the  carpenter's  craft,  turned  in  oriental  arabesques 
such  as  an  architect  might  dream  of  after  a  hasty  reading  of 
Kubla  Khan.  Apart  from  the  wanton  outburst  of  the  ap- 
proach, the  house  was  most  solemn  and  dignified,  with  severe 
lines,  its  flat  roof  topped  off  by  a  little  square  cupola  from 
which  I  fancied  it  would  be  fun  to  watch  for  Malbrouck's 
return  from  the  wars.     My  curiosity  to  see  within  was  fully 


I   ENTER   DEEP   HARBOR   SOCIETY        65 

aroused  by  the  time  I  rang  the  doorbell.  It  was  always  a 
bother  to  remember  that  one  was  supposed  to  be  angry;  I  had 
forgotten  my  chosen  role  and  caught  myself  anticipating  the 
evening. 

Hemphill  himself  opened  the  black  walnut  front  door  with 
its  silver  plated  knobs.  As  he  did  so  a  feminine  voice  called 
imperiously  "Charles,  Mary  Ellen  will  answer  the  door!" 
"Alas  for  Charles,"  thought  I,  "the  warning  has  come  too  late — 
the  deed  is  done  and  I  am  within."  Mary  Ellen  was  visible  on 
the  horizon  of  the  passage  which  ran  straight  through  the  centre 
line  of  the  house.  Upon  seeing  what  had  happened  she  fled 
to  the  rear  with  a  report  of  the  situation  at  the  front.  Hemp- 
hill, much  embarrassed  and  evidently  suffering  some  anxiety 
concerning  the  immediate  future,  helped  me  off  with  my  coat* 
He  hung  it  up  upon  a  black  walnut  hatrack  with  which  its  de- 
signer had  incorporated  a  slab  of  white  marble.  We  entered 
a  room  upon  the  right  with  an  extraordinarily  high  ceiling. 
The  room  was  perfect  early  Victorian  down  to  the  last  detail 
of  crocheted  anti-macassars  on  the  backs  of  dull  red  plush 
chairs.  To  my  great  delight  an  engraving  of  The  Monarch  of 
the  Glen  and  of  Dignity  and  Impudence  occupied  the  posi- 
tions of  honour  upon  the  walls.  There  was  also  a  scene  in 
Venice,  by  Ruskin.  Over  all,  however,  was  the  shabbiness  of 
respectable  poverty  which  descends  upon  great  possessions 
when  they  become  relics  of  a  vanished  prosperity.  I  was  so 
absorbed  with  my  delight  in  the  room — I  decided  on  the  spot 
to  put  it  into  a  novel  some  day — that  I  overlooked  for  a  mo- 
ment the  assembly  gathered  there.  But  I  was  soon  aware  of 
a  tall,  stern-lipped  woman  in  an  evening  dress  corresponding 
to  the  period  of  the  room,  bearing  down  upon  me. 

"Mother,"  said  Hemphill  (I  was  certain  this  was  a  tactless 
epithet),  "this  is  Teddy." 

She  shook  hands  icily  as  she  surveyed  me.  My  evening 
clothes  were  London  made ;  I  felt  quite  calm  about  this  ordeal. 
I  noticed  a  perceptible  thaw,  although  nothing  excessive,  when 
she  greeted  me  after  inspection.  Behind  her  came  a  tall  girl 
of  about  nineteen,  who  was  already  a  pale  replica  of  her 


66  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

mother — the  same  angularity,  particularly  about  the  neck  and 
shoulders,  but  in  her  eyes  her  father's  meekness  in  the  presence 
of  authority.  It  was  not  a  house  of  divided  counsels,  I 
decided,  after  another  glance  at  the  mother. 

"My  daughter  Edith,"  mama  announced.  Edith  dropped 
her  eyes  and  modestly  resisted  my  efforts  to  shake  hands  with 
her.  "My  sister,  Mrs.  Martin,"  was  the  next  in  line — a  stout 
elderly  lady  in  alpaca  and  cameos,  who  walked  with  the  aid  of 
an  ivory  stick.  She  wasn't  unlike  the  Queen,  taking  her  in 
silhouette.  I  was  much  struck  by  the  similarity  in  types  all 
the  way  from  Windsor  to  Deep  Harbor.  I  murmured  some- 
thing, intended  as  a  compliment,  to  Mrs.  Martin  about  the 
resemblance. 

"Good  gracious,  I  hope  I'm  not  so  old  or  so  fat  as  all  that!" 
came  the  crushing  retort.  Evidently  the  path  of  tact  in  a  new 
country  was  going  to  be  strewn  with  unforeseen  difficulties.  I 
reddened.  It  was  disconcerting  to  break  a  cucumber  frame  as 
soon  as  one  entered  the  garden.  "Miss  Helen  Claybourne," 
I  heard  Mrs.  Hemphill  continue.  I  looked  up,  hope  aban- 
doned, to  encounter  two  large  serious  grey  eyes  gazing  at  me 
with  frank  curiosity.  I  started,  for  they  were  beautiful  eyes 
set  wide  apart  beneath  a  high,  well-modelled  brow,  over  which 
soft  light  brown  hair  waved  most  alluringly.  A  straight  nose 
and  firm  chin  completed  a  face  that  was  not  only  full  of  char- 
acter, but  also  good  to  look  upon.  I  was  enough  of  a  snob 
to  note  that  her  clothes  were  right  and  that  her  athletic  figure 
carried  them  magnificently.  She  shook  hands  heartily  and 
frankly;  her  grasp  was  warm  and  pleasant,  strong  as  a  boy's, 
but  womanly  too.  My  rout  was  complete;  I  could  find  words 
in  the  gaze  of  those  grey  eyes  which  seemed  to  say  "We  be- 
lieve in  the  truth."  I  felt  humble  and  apologetic;  one  should 
first  crave  audience  before  daring  to  speak  to  those  eyes.  The 
next  reaction  was  one  of  anger  that  a  girl' — she  couldn't  be 
over  eighteen — had  so  abashed  me. 

There  were  others  present,  both  men  and  women,  but  they 
did  not  exist  for  me.  I  heard  their  names  mentioned  and 
could  not  remember  them;  I  went  around  the  room  shaking 


I   ENTER   DEEP   HARBOR   SOCIETY        67 

hands  and  trying  to  repeat  the  necessary  conventional 
phrases,  but  I  stammered  and  stuttered  and  bumped  into  the 
furniture.  Everywhere  I  felt  two  large  grey  eyes  burning 
holes  in  the  middle  of  my  back.  It  was  a  great  relief  when 
we  filed  into  the  dining  room.  I  was  half  hopeful  and  half 
fearful  that  I  should  be  given  Miss  Claybourne  to  take  down; 
I  wasn't.  My  seat  was  next  to  Mrs.  Martin  for  safe  keeping, 
while  grey  eyes  sat  across  from  me  and  talked  to  an  aggres- 
sive looking  saphead  in  a  watered  silk  waistcoat.  My  con- 
versation was  nil;  my  earlier  break  with  Mrs.  Martin  dis- 
couraged me  there,  while  she  was  now  most  absorbed  in  her 
food.''  I  tried  to  hear  something  of  what  was  said  across  the 
table,  but  in  vain.  Occasionally  grey  eyes  looked  in  my  di- 
rection, but  without  friendliness  or  even  recognition.  I  6ank 
into  gloom  and  despair.  Early  in  the  dinner  I  hoped  for  a 
glass  of  wine  to  cheer  me  up.  There  was  a  slender  empty 
glass  beside  the  iced  water  at  my  plate.  That  hope  was 
dashed  when  Mary  Ellen  filled  these  slender  glasses  with 
mineral  water  from  a  bottle  most  artfully  concealed  in  a  nap- 
kin. Occasionally,  Hemphill  burst  into  anecdote,  but  usually 
these  sallies  of  his  were  sternly  suppressed  by  the  voice  of 
the  skipper  at  the  other  end  of  the  table.  The  latter  carried 
on  a  marvellous  sign  language  with  the  harassed  Mary  Ellen, 
to  whom  dinner  parties  on  this  scale  were  obviously  a 
novelty.  When  she  wasn't  signalling  Mary  Ellen  in  a  code  of 
frowns  and  nods,  Mrs.  Hemphill  spent  her  time  searching  with 
one  foot  for  a  mysterious  bell  that  was  concealed  somewhere 
beneath  the  table.  At  last  the  dinner  was  over,  and  we  all 
adjourned  to  the  front  room.  There  was  no  smoking  for  the 
men;  I  was  thus  bereft  of  my  last  hoped-for  consolation. 

In  the  drawing  room  little  tables  were  set  out,  and  Mrs. 
Hemphill  announced  that  we  would  now  play  hearts.  We 
were  given  beribboned  tags  with  our  table  number  on  them, 
and  this  time  luck  smiled  upon  me;  I  drew  grey  eyes  as  my 
partner.  Miss  Hemphill,  pale  and  wan  as  a  tallow  candle, 
was  also  at  our  table.  The  other  man  I  have  forgotten.  I 
tried  to  be  light-hearted  and  amusing  from  the  start,  but  made 


68  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

such  a  sad  mess  of  it  that  grey  eyes  began  to  look  at  me  with 
unmistakable  disapproval. 

"Have  you  been  in  Deep  Harbor  long?"  she  asked  me  just 
as  I  made  an  atrocious  misplay.  In  some  way  this  harmless- 
seeming  question  implied  censure.  Like  Benedick,  I  thought 
"There  is  a  double  meaning  in  that."  I  retorted  rather 
sharply:  "Only  three  months."  Grey  eyes  lifted  her  eyebrows 
the  merest  fraction.  I  regretted  bitterly  the  tone  of  my  reply, 
but  it  was  too  late. 

"How  does  it  happen  that,  no  one  has  met  you?"  she  ques- 
tioned quite  calmly,  without  any  apparent  trace  of  rudeness 
in  her  voice.  The  effect  was  withering  upon  me;  no  school- 
girl could  patronize  me  or  cast  doubts  upon  my  social  eligi- 
bility— at  least,  not  in  Deep  Harbor.  She  knew  I  was  angry 
and  turned  with  some  laughing  remark  to  the  other  man,  thus 
effectually  squelching  my  intended  retort,  for  which,  how- 
ever, I  was  still  groping.  The  hand  soon  ended,  and  partners 
were  changed.  Although  grey  eyes  was  my  opponent  for 
another  game,  she  did  not  address  any  but  necessary  remarks 
to  me,  while  I  continued  to  play  badly  and  silently.  With  the 
conclusion  of  this  game  she  progressed  to  another  table,  and 
Mrs.  Martin  once  more  descended  upon  me.  The  old  lady 
took  ample  revenge  upon  me  for  likening  her  to  the  Queen. 
She  commented  adversely  upon  each  play  I  made,  and  in  be- 
tween times  lectured  me  upon  might-have-beens.  The  result 
was  that  I  remained  at  the  bottom  table  all  the  evening. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  orgy  was  suspended,  and  to  my  amaze- 
ment I  saw  grey  eyes  approaching  me.  I  scrambled  hastily 
to  my  feet,  determined  to  make  all  possible  amends.  She 
handed  me  a  little  package  tied  with  tissue  paper  and  ribbon. 

"I  have  been  asked  to  present  you  with  the  booby  prize," 
she  said  with  a  dangerous  twinkle  in  the  grey  eyes.  My 
chagrin  almost  choked  me.  Suddenly  I  felt  lonely;  I  wanted 
her  to  be  friendly  with  me.  I  wanted  to  beg  her  for  a  kind 
word.  Instead  I  bowed  and  took  my  prize  from  her  hands, 
feeling  I  had  richly  earned  it. 


I   ENTER   DEEP   HARBOR   SOCIETY      69 

"And  now,"  said  her  soft,  gentle  voice,  "you  may  take  me 
into  the  dining  room  and  get  me  some  ice-cream." 

My  heart  leaped  with  gratitude;  the  kind  word  had  come 
unsought.  She  took  my  arm  quite  as  if  we* had  been  good 
friends  for  some  time,  and  I  floated  into  the  other  room  with 
her,  trailing,  as  it  were,  a  cloud  of  glory.  We  found  ice-cream, 
coffee,  and  marvelous  rich  cake  oozing  chocol'ate!  There  was 
a  couch  over  by  a  bay  window,  and  without  more  words  we  en- 
sconced ourselves  snugly  on  it.  Her  profile  was  almost  se- 
verely beautiful — a  classic  outline  like  that  of  a  Greek  Venus. 
I  studied  it  with  delight  for  along  with  its  serene  beauty  was 
an  intellectual  charm,  easily  recognizable,  but  impossible  to 
describe  in  specific  terms.  For  twenty  blessed  minutes  we 
talked — of  nothing  important;  yet  learned  to  know  one  another 
with  bewildering  speed.  I  have  no  recollection  of  what  we 
said;  words  came  and  were  approved  on  both  sides.  Sym- 
pathetic echoes  were  felt  rather  than  expressed.  We  were  a 
little  formal,  not  quite  sure  as  yet  that  such  sympathy  was  real 
and  not  a  dream.  Then  we  were  aware  that  the  dinner  party 
were  beginning  to  bid  the  hostess  good-bye.  With  unspoken 
reluctance  we  came  out  of  our  corner. 

"May  I  see  you  home?"  I  whispered  with  anxious  heart- 
beats. 

"Yes,"  she  smiled,  "I  live  just  across  the  street." 

Mrs.  Hemphill  must  have  been  amazed  at  the  gratitude  1 
showered  upon  her  for  her  invitation.  I  wrung  Mr.  Hemphill's 
hand  with  enthusiasm,  as  Helen  glided  up  to  me  and  took  my 
arm.     It  was  an  exit  in  triumph. 

Across  the  street  we  paused  for  a  moment  outside  her  front 
door. 

"Good-night,"  I  said.     "Dream  true." 

"I'm  not  yet  the  Duchess  of  Towers,"  came  her  reply,  as 
she  vanished  through  the  door.     So  she  knew  Peter  Ibbetson! 

Turning  toward  my  little  flat  on  the  other  side  of  the  town 
came  to  me  the  bitter  after  the  sweet.  She  had  not  invited  me 
to  call !     I  had  not  liked  to  ask,  held  back  by  a  kind  of  stupid 


70  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

pride.  Besides,  I  had  been  most  certain  she  would  ask  me, 
and  she  hadn't.  The  rest  of  my  walk  was  deep  in  gloom 
again. 

Knowlton  was  sitting  up  for  me.  He  made  free  of  my 
rooms  whenever  he  liked. 

"Well,"  he  greeted  me,  "how  do  you  like  the  F.  F.'s  of 
Deep  Harbor?" 

"The  dinner  party  was  rather  mixed,  but  on  the  whole  not 
bad." 

"From  that  I  infer  that  the  mixture  contained  at  least  one 
charming  ingredient." 

This  shot  was  too  near  home  for  comfort;  therefore  I  did 
not  deign  a  reply. 

"Don't  forget  to  make  your  party  call,"  grinned  Knowlton 
at  me  as  I  undressed. 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  overlooking  dinner  calls,"  I 
snapped  back  at  him. 

After  Knowlton  had  grinned  himself  out  of  my  rooms  I  sat 
on  the  edge  of  my  bed  and  meditated.  It  was  good  to  have 
pleasant  thoughts  again  and  to  believe  that  a  large  part  of  the 
world  was  contained  in  a  pair  of  grey  eyes.  "I  am  not  in 
love,"  I  considered,  as  I  struggled,  with  the  aid  of  a  fountain 
pen,  to  say  something  appropriate  in  my  diary.  The  devil  of 
diaries  is,  unless  one  is  a  Mr.  Pepys,  that  all  the  appropriate 
things  are  said  on  the  uneventful,  unemotional  days.  "No,  it 
isn't  love — it's  recognition  of  kinship" — like  some  one  in  an 
old  Greek  story,  after  many  wanderings  I  had,  quite  by  chance, 
stumbled  upon  a  woman,  and  when  we  had  compared  the 
tokens  each  of  us  carried,  behold,  they  fitted  perfectly !  "I  am 
not  yet  the  Duchess  of  Towers,"  she  said.  "Not  yet" — then  I 
again  thought  of  Benedick  and  the  dangers  of  inference 
founded  upon  feminine  remarks.  I  had  not  been  asked  to  call. 
For  all  I  knew  it  was  over.  I  might  never  see  her  again. 
I  took  down  a  copy  of  William  Morris's  "The  Sundering 
Flood,"  for  I  remembered  the  heroine  had  grey  eyes.  All  of 
William  Morris's  heroines  had,  I  reflected.  It  was  part  of 
the  pre-Raphaelite  scheme  of  interior  decorating;  nevertheless 


I   ENTER   DEEP   HARBOR   SOCIETY       71 

it  was  comforting  to  read  of  grey-eyed  beauty,  especially  as 
the  pages  of  the  diary  blankly  refused  to  be  written  upon.  It 
grew  late,  and  it  was  hard  to  separate  my  thoughts,  my 
dreams,  and  what  I  was  reading  from  the  other.  Indeed, 
they  blended  most  deliciously — a  sort  of  sentimental  intoxi- 
cation giving  me  a  glimpse,  of  the  earthly  paradise.  Yet 
Reason  kept  whispering  that  it  wasn't  love;  that  I  was  mis- 
taking sentimental  self-deception  for  reality.  "What  a  co- 
lossal and  ridiculous  structure  you  are  erecting  upon  noth- 
ing," said  Reason.  "Upon  a  pair  of  grey  eyes,"  I  retorted. 
"Empires  have  been  built  upon  less."  "Ah,"  came  back  Rea- 
son, "that  pair  of  grey  eyes  cared  nothing  for  you,  or  they 
would  have  asked  you  to  call."  That  was,  for  the  moment, 
unanswerable.  I  was  annoyed  at  Reason  for  waking  me  up, 
and  for  spite  decided  to  write  a  poem.  I  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  writing  verses,  for  I  had  an  abominable  ear  for  rhythm. 
Nevertheless,  writing  a  sonnet  was  the  most  efficient  way  of 
banishing  Reason  for  that  night.  I  got  as  far  as  the  idea — 
something  about  two  travellers  in  the  desert  of  life  meeting 
by  chance  at  a  well-rim,  only  to  part  again — when,  mercifully, 
sleep  overcame  me;  disgustingly  sound,  dreamless  sleep,  and 
I  knew  no  more  until  next  mornings  alarm. 

I  got  up  to  find  Reason,  reinforced  by  her  auxiliary,  bright 
sunshine,  most  firmly  in  the  saddle.  Ahead  loomed  a  factory 
and  a  seven-o'clock  whistle;  gone  were  the  magic  shadows  of 
the  night  and  all  the  enchanted  garden  of  sentimental  fancies. 
I  attacked  my  test  tubes  in  a  frenzy  of  efficiency.  My  eye  was 
clear  and  my  hand  steady;  ideas  flowed  fast.  Reason  was 
triumphant.  Then  came  a  telephone  call  for  me;  Reason  came 
a  nasty  cropper  under  Instinct's  sudden  leap.  I  knew  what  the 
call  meant  before  I  took  the  receiver  down.  Knowlton's  cyni- 
cal eye  was  upon  me  as  I  answered;  I  cared  nothing  for 
him  this  time. 

"This  is  Helen  Claybourne,"  came  a  soft  voice  over  the  wire. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  I  said ;  not  perhaps  the  right  words. 

"I  am  glad  you  remember" — I  felt  her  smile,  half  naive, 
half  mischievous.     "I  meant  last  evening  to  ask  you  to  call, 


72  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

and  I  forgot."  Reason's  forces  fled  in  a  panic,  scattered  by 
the  wild  surge  of  my  blood.  "Mother  will  be  pleased  to  have 
you  next  Thursday,  if  that  is  convenient." 

"I'm  awfully  grateful,"  I  stammered  feebly.  Why  wouldn't 
words  come? 

"Until  Thursday,  then,"  the  heavenly  voice  said  calmly,  and 
there  was  a  click  in  my  ear.  The  receiver  had  been  hung  up 
at  the  other  end. 

"Gratitude  is  a  feeling  I  never  before  heard  you  express," 
commented  Knowlton  drily,  as  I  turned  away  with  a  sigh, 
tingling  from  head  to  foot.  I  was  reckless  with  a  wild,  joy- 
ous insanity. 

"Philosophy  is  a  fool,  Knowlton,"  I  exclaimed  gaily,  "as 
you  recall  Hamlet  long  ago  pointed  out  to  Horatio,  not  in  just 
these  words.  Nor  does  a  peripeteia  necessarily  carry  with  it 
a  tragic  catastrophe,  Aristotle  notwithstanding." 

"You  crazy  idiot,"  remarked  Knowlton,  "I'm  not  going  to 
send  you  to  any  more  parties  if  you  come  back  with  a  hang- 
over. You  certainly  have  a  hell  of  a  classic  education  for  a 
chemist,"  he  added,  "and  how  you  like  to  show  it  off!  What 
was  that  word  you  used — perry  what?" 

"Peripeteia,  you  mean,"  I  condescended.  "It  is  a  reversal 
of  fortune,  marking  the  turning  point  of  a  Greek  tragedy." 

"Well,  I'll  show  you  a  first-class  American  tragedy  if  you 
don't  go  back  to  your  lab  and  work,"  he  grinned.  "I  don't 
admire  the  influence  of  the  female  sex  upon  you,  Ted." 

"You  are  generalizing  from  a  single  example,"  I  flung  back 
as  I  left  the  room. 

It  was  Tuesday,  and  Thursday  seemed  further  away  than 
does  the  week-end  viewed  from  Monday  morning.  Knowlton 
pursued  me  remorselessly,  trying  to  make  me  confess  who  my 
new  friend  was.  All  his  cross-examinations  were  in  vain.  I 
took  delight  in  hugging  my  happiness  to  myself,  and  in  answer- 
ing Knowlton's  questions  in  the  most  extravagant  and  flam- 
buoyant  language  I  could  think  of.  In  the  end  I  could  not  tell 
whether  he  was  amused  or  annoyed.     I  worked  night  and  day 


I   ENTER   DEEP   HARBOR   SOCIETY      73 

in  the  laboratory  to  pass  the  time.  My  hopes  were  soaring  so 
high  that  I  trembled  for  fear  that  Reason's  sunbeams  would 
melt  the  wax  of  their  wings  and  send  us  crashing  down.  And 
with  my  work  Knowlton  was  content.  Industry  was  the  sure 
pass  to  his  favour. 

On  Thursday  at  the  noon  hour,  however,  Knowlton  exploded 
a  bombshell. 

"We  are  going  to  work  the  plant  twenty-four  hours  a  day, 
Ted,"  he  announced,  "and  I've  put  you  in  charge  of  the  night- 
shift,  beginning  tonight." 

My  throat  went  dry.  Which  of  the  seven  devils  of  hell  had 
led  him  to  choose  this  night  of  all  nights? 

"It's  tough  on  you,  Ted,  for  you'll  have  to  work  right 
through  the  whole  twenty-four  hours  the  first  day.  But  I  want 
you  to  let  the  lab  go  tonight  and  simply  act  as  superintendent. 
You'll  be  able  to  snatch  some  sleep  in  the  office." 

"I  have  an  engagement  this  evening — it's  very  awkward,"  I 
began. 

"Well,  you've  got  two  now,  and  the  one  at  the  factory  is 
the  one  you'll  keep." 

In  spite  of  Knowlton's  decisiveness,  we  reached  a  com- 
promise. He  agreed  to  let  me  off  from  six  o'clock  until  mid- 
night, provided  I  would  make  up  the  time  later,  a  concession 
which  I  eagerly  accepted. 

A  few  minutes  after  eight  found  me  walking  out  Myrtle 
Boulevard,  Deep  Harbor's  street  of  streets,  toward  the  Clay- 
bourne  residence.  I  had  dressed  in  dinner  clothes  with  ex- 
ceeding care;  no  one  could  have  guessed  that  my  business  for 
most  of  the  night  was  to  superintend  the  night-shift  at  a  fac- 
tory. The  latter  task  was  infinitely  remote;  if  it  crossed  my 
mind  at  all,  it  was  only  as  something  mechanical,  to  be  wound 
up  later  and  left  to  run  by  itself.  The  important  matter  in 
hand  was  to  verify  first  impressions  concerning  a  pair  of  grey 
eyes. 

A  maid  opened  the  door  of  a  pleasant  oak-panelled  hall- 
way, and  before  I  had  time  to  get  my  bearings  the  grey  eyes 
were  introducing  me  to  "Mother."     In  an  instant  I  had  the 


74  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

feeling  that  the  latter  was  not  prepared  to  be  enthusiastic. 
Strange  young  men  from  the  outlands,  of  unknown  origin, 
were  evidently  to  be  resisted.  I  looked  at  her  closely,  as  I 
made  my  best  and  politest  bow,  hoping  that  my  manners  might 
carry  a  little  conviction.  Mrs.  Claybourne  was1  short  and  sal- 
low, the  latter  caused,  as  I  was  later  to  learn,  by  her  mania  for 
tinkering  with  her  health.  She  was  a  little  fretful,  with  a 
tendency  to  imply  that  the  world  was  not  very  considerate.  "I 
told  Helen  I  was  too  tired  tonight  to  be  very  entertaining,"  was 
her  wail,  as  I  shook  hands,  "but  she  would  ask  you." 

"We  are  not  going  to  bother  you  at  all,  mother  dear,"  Helen, 
as  I  dared  think  of  her,  interposed  hastily.  "Now  do  sit  down 
in  your  big  chair  and  read  your  magazine.  We  are  going  out 
on  the  side  porch." 

"Mr.  Claybourne  is  at  the  club  playing  cards.  I  must  apol- 
ogize for  his  not  being  here — but  then  he  seldom  is,"  Mrs. 
Claybourne  went  on  plaintively.  "Helen,  this  room  is  so  un- 
tidy it's  a  positive  disgrace.  I  do  think  you  might  have  Jane 
straighten  it  up  a  little  when  you  expect  callers.  No  one  ever 
thinks  of  me.  My  nerves  make  me  a  very  poor  housekeeper, 
Mr.  Jevons." 

The  room  appeared  to  me  most  comfy  and  homelike.  There 
were  books  and  magazines  and  the  atmosphere  of  a  place  in 
which  people  really  lived.  I  murmured-  some  deprecatory 
reply  as  Helen  took  me  out  on  to  the  side  porch.  The  latter 
was  a  heavenly  place  shut  in  by  vines  heavy  with  the  odour  of 
honeysuckle.  There  were  deep  wicker-basket  chairs  and  a  mar- 
vellous couch-like  hammock.  Unlike  the  Deep  Harbor  with 
which  I  was  familiar,  this  spot  was  quiet  and  restful.  The 
early  October  air  was  tinged  with  a  delicious  hint  of  frosts  to 
come;  the  stars  shone  large  and  clear;  the  Milky  Way  seemed 
fairly  to  romp  across  the  sky. 

"You  mustn't  mind  mother,"  said  Helen,  as  we  sat  in  two  of 
the  large  chairs.  "She  isn't  quite  happy  unless  she  has  a 
grievance." 

I  laughed.     It  was  so  like  the  comment  I  had  hoped  her 


I   ENTER   DEEP   HARBOR   SOCIETY      75 

capable  of  making.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  her  grievance  tonight — I 
wish  I  thought  a  happy  one." 

"I'm  afraid  that's  partly  true,"  Helen  replied.  "Mother  is 
an  extreme  stickler  for  the  conventions.  She  complains  that 
no  one  knows  who  you  are.  It  was  useless  for  me  to  tell  her 
that  I  knew  you  and  didn't  care  who  you  are — Mother  says 
I  am  hopelessly  of  this  generation — and  regards  that  as  an 
argument  against  you.  I  finally  told  her  you  were  coming 
anyway — and,  well — ,"  she  laughed, — "here  you  are." 

So  she  had  defended  me  and  fought  for  me!  My  invitation 
to  call  was  therefore  no  mere  empty  social  form  such  as  com- 
mon politeness  toward  a  stranger,  but  an  offer  of  friendship. 

"I  really  can  set  your  mother's  mind  at  rest,"  I  said.  "I 
belong  to  one  or  two  decent  clubs — so  does  my  father — " 

"Please  don't — I'm  not  asking  for  a  passport,"  she  inter- 
rupted.    "As  for  mother,  she  will  get  used  to  you  in  time." 

This  was  encouraging,  for  it  deliberately  implied  other  calls 
to  come.  Of  course,  the  upshot  was  that  I  told  her  all  about 
myself,  pouring  out  the  pent-up  loneliness  accumulated  since 
my  arrival.  She  listened  as  only  a  sympathetic  girl  can  listen 
to  a  man  talking  endlessly  about  himself.  At  times  there  came 
delicious  silences  during  which  we  stared  at  the  stars,  and 
again  a  gentle  question  from  her  would  start  me  off  once  more. 
It  was  with  a  shock  that  we  suddenly  noticed  "mother"  silhou- 
etted in  the  doorway. 

"Helen!"  came  the  complaining  voice.  "It's  half  past  ten." 
"Good  Lord,  I  groaned  inwardly,  "I  might  have  stayed  all 
night."     I  rose  hastily,  Helen  more  deliberately. 

"Very  well,  mother,"  her  soft  voice  said,  "Ted  is  just  going." 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  called  me  Ted.  I  fell  over  a 
wicker  tabouret  in  my  delirium.  As  we  passed  into  the  living 
room,  Mrs.  Claybourne  buttonholed  me. 

"Have  you  a  grandfather,  young  man?" 

Helen's  shocked  "Mother!"  was  unheeded. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Claybourne,  I  had.  He  was  colonel  of  one  of 
your  northern  regiments  in  the  Civil  War.     His  sword  hangs 


76  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

over  my  desk.  I  shall  be  pleased  to  show  it  you  some  day  at 
tea." 

"Mother!  How  could  you?"  again  from  Helen,  and  she 
laid  her  hand,  just  for  a  second,  ever  so  lightly,  on  my  arm. 

The  effect  of  my  statement  I  observed  to  be  favourable.  The 
"good-night"  Mrs.  Claybourne  gave  me  was  less  chilly  than  the 
earlier  "good  evenings."     Helen  went  with  me  to  the  door. 

"Do  you  ride?"  she  asked,  with  a  change  of  subject  that 
surprised  me. 

"Yes — or,  rather,  I  did  before  coming  to  Deep  Harbor." 

"Then  get  a  horse  and  be  here  at  nine  next  Sunday  morning. 
Good-night,  Ted." 

"Good-night,  Helen.     Thank  you  for  tonight." 

I  left  in  such  entranced  good  humour  with  the  world  that  I 
forgot  to  change  my  clothes  before  reporting  at  the  factory; 
and  so  it  happened  that  the  superintendent  of  the  first  night- 
shift  performed  his  duties  in  what  my  tailor  had  informed  me 
were  "faultless"  evening  clothes.  The  result  was  to  make 
Knowlton's  grin  wider  than  usual  when  I  appeared  to  relieve 
him. 

"Ted,  you've  got  more  nerve  than  I  gave  you  credit  for, 
if  you  face  our  gang  in  a  clawhammer.  However,  lots  of  folks 
have  original  ideas  when  they  try  suicide.  If  you  are  lynched 
before  morning  don't  forget  I  warned  you." 

"You  need  not  worry,"  I  said  with  dignity.  "I'm  fairly  good 
friends  with  most  of  our  men." 

"All  right,  Ted.  Some  get  theirs  shooting  tigers;  others 
falling  off  the  Alps;  still  others  by  being  just  plain  damn  fools. 
I'm  thinking  you'll  look  a  little  strange  on  your  way  to  break- 
fast aboard  the  seven-five  trolley." 

At  this  I  turned  a  little  pale;  I  had  not  thought  of  the  jour- 
ney back  by  broad  daylight.  It  was  too  late  to  back  out.  I 
went  down  to  the  machine  shop  with  my  fortitude  somewhat 
shaken,  only  to  discover  my  fears  groundless  and  Knowlton's 
warning  unnecessary.  No  one  but  an  occasional  apprentice  or 
mechanic's  helper  so  much  as  bothered  to  look  at  me,  much 


I   ENTER   DEEP   HARBOR   SOCIETY      77 

less  make  any  comment.  The  office  might  always  have  worn 
similar  regalia,  as  far  as  outward  signs  were  concerned. 

Until  about  one  in  the  morning  I  found  the  factory  by  night 
a  picturesque  place.  Every  machine  was  running  at  full  ca- 
pacity. Overhead  blinking  white  arc  lamps,  whose  rays  were 
shot  through  with  spluttering  purple,  danced  and  hissed.  At 
the  lathes  grey-headed  mechanics,  fine-looking  shrewd-faced 
men  most  of  them,  bent  and  peered  at  the  Medusa-like  tresses 
of  steel  the  tools  sheered  off  from  the  castings.  Helpers 
leaned  over  them  with  wire-enclosed  electric  bulbs,  lighting 
up  the  faces  of  the  chief  actors  as  in  a  theatre.  Belts  raced 
and  flapped  from  nosy  shafts  along  the  ceiling — a  steady,  un- 
interrupted din.  An  occasional  machine  would  shriek  or 
groan  in  the  agony  of  its  task.  Further  down  the  shop  the 
compressed  air  chisels  were  beating  a  devil's  tattoo  against  the 
rougher  castings.  Boys  trundled  trucks  piled  with  metal 
parts  on  their  way  from  one  machine  to  another.  Foremen, 
pad  and  pencil  in  hand,  went  about  keeping  a  record  of  each 
machine's  progress.  The  place  smelt  of  hot  oil,  of  grimy 
cotton  waste,  and  of  sweaty  human  bodies. 

As  the  novelty  of  the  picture  wore  off  I  became  sleepy  and 
bored.  By  two  o'clock  it  was  clear  that  as  superintendent  I 
had  a  sinecure.  This  automaton  of  a  factory  was  quite  ca- 
pable of  running  itself.  No  one  referred  any  questions  to  me 
or  asked  my  advice.  I  lingered  hopefully  here  and  there  when 
I  saw  a  machine  slow  down  or  stop  for  a  moment,  but  whatever 
the  reason  of  these  stoppages,  I  was  not  consulted. 

Upstairs  to  the  laboratory  I  went,  leaving  word  with  the 
chief  foreman  where  I  was  to  be  found.  Work  was  out  of  the 
question ;  I  was  too  sleepy.  I  tried  my  hand  at  a  few  pages  in 
the  diary — to  recapitulate  my  thoughts  on  the  subject  of  grey 
eyes.  As  usual  when  I  most  wanted  to  write  or  felt  that  I  had 
a  topic  worth  writing  about,  no  words  would  come.  I  fell 
asleep  in  my  chair  once,  with  my  feet  upon  my  desk,  to  wake 
with  a  horrible  start  when  they  slid  off  with  a  thump.  "Six 
weeks  of  this" — I  thought  with  a  shudder — "only  the  other 


78  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

nights  will'  not  be  quite  so  bad,  because  I  am  to  do  my  regular 
work  at  night  and  sleep  by  day."  A  dreadful  inversion  of 
one's  normal  life,  whichever  way  one  looked  at  it.  It  meant 
bringing  a  midnight  supper  for  one  thing — and  where  was  the 
restaurant  in  Deep  Harbor  to  prepare  a  tempting  supper? 
Then  I  was  annoyed  at  myself  because  my  mind  had  seized 
upon  such  a  petty  factor  as  a  question  of  supper  to  magnify 
into  importance. 

I  tried  to  get  back  to  grey  eyes,  but  I  was  too  sleepy  to  be 
sentimental.  What  was  it  we  were  to  do  Sunday?  Oh,  yes — 
go  for  a  ride.  Where?  I  wondered.  Heavens!  I  had  no 
riding  clothes!  I  scribbled  a  hasty  memorandum  and  heard 
the  town  hall  clock  strike  three.  "Take  a  look  around  once  an 
hour,"  Knowlton  had  said.  "To  make  sure,  punch  the  clock 
in  the  front  office  each  time  you  pass."  To  punch  a  clock  was 
to  register  one's  number  on  a  circular  mechanism  which  also 
recorded  the  time  as  well.  My  number  was  seven.  As  I  had 
rather  resented  being  numbered,  Knowlton  allowed  me  to 
choose  my  own.  His  was  one.  I  remember  chosing  seven  be- 
cause it  was  lucky.  At  this  point  I  pulled  myself  together  and 
started  another  tour. 

Hour  by  hour  the  endless  night  went  by;  the  dawn,  turning 
the  lake  to  mauve  and  next  to  gold,  gave  promise  that  soon  the 
factory  gates  would  open  to  let  me  pass.  I  was  tired — too 
tired  to  think  or  care  for  anything  but  bed.  I  had  still  to  re- 
port to  Knowlton  when  I  successfully  passed  the  ordeal  of 
going  down-town  in  evening  clothes.  Fortunately  I  was  able 
to  borrow  a  raincoat. 

"Run  home  and  get  all  the  sleep  you  can.  You  are  off  un- 
til six  this  evening." 

At  two  in  the  afternoon  I  awoke ;  and,  try  as  I  would,  further 
sleep  was  impossible.  I  got  up,  had  a  shower,  and  telephoned 
Helen.  Of  course  her  mother  answered.  It  appeared  that 
Helen  was  out,  nor,  to  judge  from  her  mother's  explanations, 
did  there  seem  any  likelihood  Helen  would  ever  be  home  again. 
"Something  will  have  to  be  done  about  mama,"  I  reflected. 


I   ENTER   DEEP   HARBOR   SOCIETY         79 

What  was  it  I  must  do  today?  Oh,  yes — riding  clothes.  I 
hurried  out  in  search  of  a  tailor  who  would  engage  himself  on 
his  honour  to  make  me  riding  clothes  by  Sunday  morning.  Two 
declared  it  could  not  be  done  by  mortal  man,  since  it  was  now 
Friday  afternoon;  one  was  doubtful.  He  had  heard  of  things 
done  in  such  haste,  but  was  skeptical  concerning  results.  I 
insulted  him  into  accepting  the  commission.  Our  contract  was 
finally  settled  on  the  basis  of  midnight  Saturday  or  no  pay. 
"Where  does  one  obtain  horses  in  this  town?"  I  pondered, 
strolling  down  State  Street,  which  was  respectable  for  four 
blocks  and  most  ragged  and  disreputable  top  and  bottom.  At 
Frazee's  famous  soda-water-and-candy  store  whom  should  I 
see  inside  but  Helen!  After  all,  the  coincidence  was  not  so 
remarkable,  I  muttered.  If  one  were  out  at  all  in  Deep  Harbor 
one  was  limited  to  State  Street's  four  blocks  of  stores  or  to 
Myrtle  Boulevard.  The  rest  of  the  town  was  chiefly  built  up  of 
slums  and  factories,  except  for  one  or  two  lesser  streets  on 
which  people  lived,  but  never  walked.  I  went  in  to  Frazee's 
and  only  needed  Helen's  welcoming  smile  to  join  her  at  the 
little  marble-topped  table. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  eating?"  I  asked,  not  very  polite,  as 
I  pointed  at  a  little  mess  in  a  dish  before  her. 

"That  is  a  chocolate  nut  sundae,"  she  laughed.  "Won't  you 
try  one?" 

"Are  they  very  sweet?"  I  inquired  doubtfully. 

"Of  course!"  and  she  presented  a  brimming  spoon  to  me  to 
taste.  I  was  honored  by  the  compliment,  but  the  sickeningly 
sweet  compound  all  but  did  for  me.  I  had  not  yet  eaten,  for 
I  was  too  tired  in  the  morning  and  had  forgotten  about  it  after 
I  got  up.     Helen  was  delighted  with  the  face  I  made  over  it. 

"I  think  I  prefer  more  solid  food,"  I  apologized.  "My 
education  stopped  with  ice-cream  sodas." 

"I  think  it's  a  great  lark  meeting  you  here  like  this!  Mother 
would  be  furious!" 

"Isn't  it  done?"  I  asked  in  all  seriousness,  looking  about  at 
Frazee's    unlimited    display    of    white   marble,    enamel,    and 


80  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

nickel  trimmings.     It  seemed  a  harmless  looking  place  to  me. 

"Of  course  not,  you  silly  Ted.  What  do  you  suppose  Deep 
Harbor  would  say  if  we  did  this  very  often?" 

"Is  Deep  Harbor  loquacious?" 

"Extremely." 

"But  the  place  is  full  of  young  couples — just  like  ourselves." 

Helen  laughed.  "If  I  explain,  you'll  think  me  snobbish, 
Ted,  and  I'm  not,  even  if  mother  is.  Don't  you  see — all  these 
boys  and  girls — well  that's  what  Deep  Harbor  is  like." 

"I  understand  perfectly,  now  I  think  it  over.  I  should 
be  very  careful  where  I  took  you  to  tea  at  home — and  we'd 
have  to  have  official  sanction  to  go  at  all  .  .  .  Deep  Harbor 
is  like  the  rest  of  the  world." 

Again  she  laughed,  and  her  grey  eyes  danced.  "Ted,  you 
really  must  give  up  thinking  we  are  strange  aborigines.  But  I 
feel  the  same  way  you  do  when  I  come  back  from  boarding 
school — until  I  settle  down  again." 

"I  suppose  it's  the  old  prejudice  against  the  new  and 
strange,"  I  said. 

"You've  just  said  Deep  Harbor  is  like  the  rest  of  the  world, 
Ted." 

"It  is,"  I  said,  looking  at  her  until  she  dropped  her  eyes. 

"Always  conceding  that  you  know  the  world,  Ted,"  she  added 
slyly,  looking  up  suddenly  from  under  her  lashes. 

"I've  seen  quite  a  lot  of  it." 

"Is  that  the  same  as  knowing  it?" 

"No,  but  it's  a  start." 

"Goodness  me,  Teddy,  I  ought  to  be  home  by  now,"  she  ex- 
claimed, springing  up.  Women  are  apt  to  break  off  a  conver- 
sation just  as  it  is  getting  interesting. 

"May  I  walk  home  with  you?" 

"That  would  never  do,  Teddy." 

I  looked  so  disappointed  that  she  softened.  "You  may  come 
part  way.  That  will  be  enough  for  Myrtle  Boulevard  for  one 
afternoon." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 


I   ENTER   DEEP   HARBOR   SOCIETY     81 

"The  porches  are  full  at  this  time,  Ted,  and  I  know  every 
living  soul  on  Myrtle  Boulevard." 

I  walked  a  few  paces  in  silence. 

"I  must  see  your  father — I  can  show  him  some  letters — " 

"Ted,  you  won't  do  anything  so  insanely  silly." 

"But  what  can  I  do?" 

"If  I  were  you,"  she  remarked  demurely,  "I'd  try  staying  on 
my  very  best  behaviour."  Her  eyes  flashed  mischief  as  she 
said  this. 

"Does  every  inquisitive  idiot  in  Deep  Harbor  know  me  by 
sight?" 

"Be  careful,  Ted,  how  you  refer  to  our  upper  circles,"  she 
laughed.  "Of  course  they  know  you,  silly  boy.  You  buy  a 
factory  from  one  of  our  prominent  business  men,  come  all  the 
way  from  London,  speak  to  no  one,  live  a  mysterious  life  all  by 
yourself,  with  a  strange  piratey-looking  cutthroat — " 

"Prospero!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Prospero!  Delicious  name!"  she  echoed.  "Well,  you  do 
all  these  things  and  then  imagine  you  are  invisible.  Could 
any  one  but  a  man  be  so  stupid?" 

"There  does  seem  to  be  something  in  what  you  say,"  I  gur- 
gled humbly.  Her  laugh  this  time  was  loud  and  joyous 
enough  to  add  to  Myrtle  Boulevard's  suspicions. 

"Any  one  with  any  common  sense  would  have  presented  his 
letters  of  introduction  at  the  beginning." 

"How  do  you  know  I  have  any?" 

"Oh,  dad  had  the  bank  look  up  all  your  connections,  of 
course,  when  you  borrowed  money  for  the  pay  roll.  He's  a 
director.     He  told  me  all  about  it." 

"This  is  a  chatty  little  village" — I  said  with  a  very  feeble  ef- 
fort at  withering  sarcasm. 

"So  you  see,  Ted,  dad  and  I  know  you  are  all  right, — only 
mother  and  the  rest  rather  stick  at  your  not  presenting  yourself 
properly.  It  will  take  a  lot  of  grandfather  to  get  around 
that!" — and  she  went  off  again  into  peals  of  laughter. 

"Helen,  you  don't  believe — " 


82  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

She  cut  me  off.  "Ted.  I  make  friends  with  whom  I  please, 
and  no  explanations  are  necessary,  unless  I  ask  for  them." 

"But  there  wasn't — " 

'That  will  do,  Teddy.  You  must  turn  back  now,"  and  she 
went  on,  leaving  me  with  one  last  protest  hanging  in  mid-air. 
I  looked  at  my  watch,  as  one  always  does  in  the  street  to  cover 
embarrassment.  It  was  quarter  to  six!  By  dashing  up  a  side 
street  and  running  after  an  electric  car  I  arrived  at  the  office 
exactly  with  the  whistle. 


Chapter  Six 
i   go   for  a   ride   on   satan 

MY  precious  riding  clothes  were  delivered  Saturday  night, 
somewhat  to  my  surprise.  I  tried  them  on  at  a  private 
dress  rehearsal  before  going  to  bed. 

By  eight  in  the  morning  I  was  under  way  to  a  certain  livery 
and  feed  stable  that  had  been  recommended  and  found  that  no 
progress  had  yet  been  made  with  saddling  my  chosen  horse — or 
even  with  the  grooming  of  the  angular-looking  brute.  A  tip 
spurred  the  hostler's  efforts,  and  finally  Satan  was  as  present- 
able as  a  horse  possessing  his  peculiar  anatomy  could  be.  The 
beast  was  an  underfed  Western  broncho  somewhat  past  the  first 
bloom  of  youth.  His  eye  was  not  confiding,  showing  too  much 
white;  the  manipulation  of  his  ears  confirmed  the  moroseness 
indicated  by  his  eyes.  The  poor  animal's  bony  frame  was 
seared  all  over  with  hieroglyphic  brands  proclaiming  service 
under  the  dynasties  of  many  ranches;  he  was  as  interesting  to 
study  as  the  panels  on  an  Egyptian  tomb.  I  suspected  that 
much  of  the  important  history  of  the  Far  West  was  engraved 
upon  him.  The  question  of  riding,  him,  however,  was  a 
matter  of  Hobson's  choice,  for  the  other  animals  were  fat 
ladies'  cobs  mainly  used  in  harness. 

When  Satan  and  I  appeared  before  Helen's  house  there  were 
half  a  dozen  other  horses,  both  good  and  bad,  tethered  in  front 
or  watched  over  by  grooms.  It  was  to  be  quite  a  large  party,  I 
noted,  with  considerable  disappointment.  Helen  came  out  im- 
mediately, looking  radiant  in  a  linen  riding  habit,  black  sailor 
hat,  and  shiny  boots.  Why  is  it  that  a  smart  riding  habit  is  the 
most  becoming  costume  a  woman  can  wear?  She  invited  me 
in  to  await  the  others.  Her  father  met  us  in  the  entrance  hall. 
He  was  a  typical  clear-cut  business  man,  with  a  rigid  mous- 

83 


84  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

tache,  a  keen  eye,  and  a  hearty  hand-clasp.  He  looked  a  little 
searehingly  at  me,  but  was  friendly.  Mother,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  certain  it  was  going  to  rain;  the  whole  party  was 
a  foolish  idea;  we  ought  to  go  to  church;  horses  were  never 
safe,  and  so  on.  Helen  kept  up  an  automatic  "Yes,  mother," 
"Now  don't  worry  about  us,  mother,"  with  what  I  thought  was 
angelic  patience. 

The  others  were  not  long  in  getting  ready.  Among  them  was 
Miss  Hemphill;  the  rest  were  strangers  to  me.  There  were 
two  more  girls,  besides  Helen  and  Miss  Hemphill,  and  three 
other  men,  one  of  whom  was  a  dapper  German  who  spoke  but 
little  English.  Helen  told  me  he  was  a  cavalry  officer  visiting 
German-American  relatives  in  Deep  Harbor.  I  was  detailed  to 
talk  to  him  because  I  had  fragments  of  his  language  and  could 
at  least  understand  him.  He  clicked  his  heels  and  bowed  with 
the  customary  Prussian  stiffness  that  carried  me  back  at  a 
bound  to  a  week  once  spent  in  Berlin.  I  was  curious  to  know 
what  he  was  doing  in  Deep  Harbor.  There  was,  however,  no 
opportunity  at  that  time  for  me  to  pump  him,  for  Helen  ordered 
us  to  horse. 

We  made  quite  a  cavalcade  down  Myrtle  Boulevard,  going 
two  by  two,  with  Helen  and  me  in  the  lead.  Behind  us  rode  the 
German,  lavishing  most  studied  attention  upon  Miss  Delia 
Greyson,  who,  Helen  said,  was  one  of  Deep  Harbor's  heiresses. 
I  felt  quite  shabby  on  poor  old  Satan  alongside  Helen's  neat 
lady's  mare,  followed  as  we  were  by  two  superb  horses  belong- 
ing to  the  Greysons'  stables.  The  German,  who  was  called 
Lieutenant  Ludwig  von  Oberhausen,  took  pains  to  make  his 
horse  show  off,  a  thing  which  caused  my  Western  democratic 
beast  to  make  vicious  threats  at  such  carryings  on.  I  was 
obliged  to  ask  the  Herr  Lieutenant  to  have  a  care  that  Satan 
did  not  plant  his  heels  where  they  would  be  undesirable. 
The  Lieutenant  raised  his  eyebrows  and  said  "Ach  so?" — 
not  very  pleasantly. 

"What  have  I  done  to  be  punished  with  a  German?"  I 
asked  Helen,  after  the  Lieutenant  had  curvetted  into  Satan  and 


I   GO   FOR   A   RIDE   ON   SATAN  85 

me  for  about  the  tenth  time.  Helen  laughed.  "Why,  we  think 
him  very  nice.  He's  quite  an  important  man  in  his  own  coun- 
try." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  of  that,"  I  retorted.  "They  all  are,  in  their 
own  estimation." 

"Now,  you've  got  to  behave,  Ted,  and  forget  your  nasty  Eng- 
lish prejudices.  Ludwig  is  a  wonderful  horseman  and  dances 
adorably." 

"Wouldn't  you  know  it?"  I  thought  to  myself."  "Of  course 
the  brute  has  his  parlour  tricks  down  perfectly" — but  I  was  too 
canny  to  say  this  aloud. 

"We'll  ride  on  ahead  of  them,  if  he  annoys,"  she  conceded. 

"By  the  way,  Helen,"  I  remarked  as  we  reached  the  dusty  and 
cinder-strewn  outskirts  to  the  eastward  of  Deep  Harbor,  "where 
are  we  going?" 

"Haven't  I  told  you,  Ted?  Oh,  I  always  forget  you  don't 
know  us.  We  are  going  where  we  often  go — to  a  wonderful 
little  inn  to  eat  a  chicken-and-waffle  dinner." 

"How  far  is  it?"  I  enquired,  for  I  was  already  aware  that 
it  had  been  several  months  since  I  had  ridden  a  horse. 

"Not  over  fifteen  miles,"  she  replied,  quite  unconscious  of 
the  shock  her  words  were  to  me.  A  thirty-mile  ride  the  first 
day!  "We'll  have  a  late  supper  at  my  house  when  we  get 
back,"  she  continued.  "There's  a  lovely  ravine  north  from 
the  inn;  we  can  ride  up  there  to  a  little  fairy  waterfall.  It's 
only  two  or  three  miles  out  of  our  way." 

"It  sounds  delightful,"  I  stated  quite  truthfully.  "Satan,"  I 
whispered,  "you  poor  old  beast,  if  you  are  game,  I  am.  It 
may  kill  us  both,  but  we'll  see  it  through."  Satan  shook  his 
head,  insulted  at  the  liberty  I  took  of  addressing  him  confi- 
dentially. 

We  were  now  in  the  open  country,  which  fairly  sparkled  in 
the  clear  October  air.  The  vineyards  on  either  side  of  the  road 
were  hung  with  purple  clusters,  the  maples  were  giving  the 
first  hints  of  their  autumn  colouring;  the  sumach  was  already 
flaming.    Beyond,  the  lake  lay,  a  colder  blue  than  I  had  seen  it; 


86  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

one  felt  like  shouting  with  the  very  joy  of  living.  All'  this,  by 
some  strange  twist,  reminded  me  of  Mrs.  Claybourne's  hostility 
to  me.     I  questioned  Helen  about  it. 

"Oh,  mother  made  an  awful  fuss  when  she  heard  I'd  asked 
you  to  come.  Dad  spoke  up  for  you;  at  least,  he  told  mother 
I  was  old  enough  to  take  care  of  myself.  The  trouble  was  that 
Ludwig  had  asked  me  to  go  with  him — " 

"That  German?"  I  interrupted  savagely. 

"Hush,  Ted.  Remember  your  manners.  I  refused  his  in- 
vitation to  ask  you.  Now  are  you  satisfied?"  Giving  her 
horse  a  touch  with  her  riding  crop,  she  cantered  off  down  the 
road  ahead  of  me. 

"Come  Satan,"  I  spoke  to  my  animal,  "shades  of  cattle 
round-ups  and  the  Wyoming  Trail — show  what  you  are  good 
for,"  and  we  set  off  madly  in  pursuit.  It  was  her  pleasure  to 
let  us  catch  her,  for  Satan,  willing  enough,  was  beyond  the 
time  of  life  when  he  could  overhaul  a  thoroughbred.  He  was 
breathing  hard,  but  with  dignity,  when  I  pulled  upon  his  iron 
mouth  as  we  came  abreast.  I  found  Helen  laughing  until  tears 
were  in  her  eyes. 

"What  now,  little  woman?"  I  asked  with  the  anxiety  a  man 
has  when  a  woman  laughs  by  herself. 

"I  was  thinking  that  if  Satan  were  half  a  hand  taller  he  would 
exactly  match  Mr.  Winkle's  horse.  You  looked  too  funny 
lumbering  down  the  hill  after  us." 

"Apart  from  the  fact  that  it  was  bad  form  of  you  to  canter 
down  a  hill  and  thus  imperil  Satan's  rheumatic  joints,  I  hope 
you  don't  intend  the  comparison  to  extend  to  the  rider,"  I  re- 
buked her. 

"No,"  pursing  her  lips,"  "you  handle  a  horse  well — a  little 
finicky,  perhaps,  as  if  you  were  riding  in  a  park.  All  told, 
you  compare  quite  favourably  with  Mr.  Winkle" — this  with  a 
most  merry  twinkle. 

"I  was  once  in  love  with  Arabella  Allen,"  I  remarked  sol- 
emnly. 

"Isn't  that  just  like  a  man?     She  is  better  than  some  of  the 


I   GO   FOR  A   RIDE   ON   SATAN         87 

impossible  good-goody  ones,  though.  Now,  I'll  bet,  Ted,  you 
thought  David  Copperfield's  Agnes  adorable?" 

"She  was  my  first  love." 

"Oh,  men  make  me  so  angry!"  she  exclaimed  fervently. 
"They  put  a  silly  doll  on  a  pedestal  and  think  that  the  pattern 
of  what  a  woman  should  be." 

"How  old  are  you,  Helen?" 

"Eighteen,  Ted." 

"Therefore  you  are  old  enough  to  know  what  a  man's  woman 
should  be." 

"Ted,  I  hate  sarcasm,  especially  from  a  boy,  on  the  subject 
•f  women." 

"I'm  twenty-three;  that's  a  lot  older  than  you  are." 

"No,  it  isn't.  A  girl  is  always  older  than  a  boy,  no  matter 
what  their  ages." 

That  sounded  illogical  and  complicated  enough  to  be  true.  I 
didn't  want,  however,  to  surrender  Agnes  too  easily. 

"What  ought  a  woman  to  be?"  I  followed  up. 

"A  person  of  commonsense;  not  a  silly,  affected  creature 
made  in  man's  image — like  Agnes." 

"My  truly  first  love  was  a  fairy  princess." 

"A  blonde,  of  course.  Man  again,"  and  Helen  replaced,  I 
think  unconsciously,  a  stray  lock  of  most  delicious  brown  hair. 

"I  was  only  nine  years  old." 

"I  told  you  a  man's  age  never  made  any  difference." 

To  this  I  had  no  satisfactory  reply. 

"I'm  sorry,  Ted.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,  or  imply  any- 
thing when  I  said  that." 

"I  wasn't  silent  because  you  said  that,"  I  murmured.  "I 
was  just  thinking  how  different  Deep  Harbor  seems  to  me  now." 

"Were  you  very  bored  when  you  first  came?" 

"Perhaps,"  I  said,  "or  lonely — I  don't  know  which.  Yes,  I 
did  find  this  a  lonely  place." 

"It  needn't  have  been.  You  could  have  met  plenty  of  nice 
people,  if  you  had  taken  a  little  trouble." 

"It  sounds  frightfully  foolish — in  fact,  I  know  it  doesn't 


88  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

sound  remotely  plausible* — I  didn't  know  there  were  any  nice 
people  here." 

Helen's  eyes  were  upon  me  in  open  astonishment,  then  she 
broke  into  one  of  her  merry  laughs. 

"You  thought  you  were  marooned  among  barbarians,  I  sup- 
pose. How  masculine  and  English,  both  together!  The  com- 
bination would  be  disastrous  anywhere." 

"I  don't  know,"  I  protested.  "I  didn't  get  started,  that's  all. 
I  had  a  lot  to  do  out  at  the  factory." 

"Ted,  don't  lose  your  temper  when  you're  teased.  It's  not 
good  sporting  spirit." 

"I  think  I'm  honest  when  I  say  I  didn't  think  about  meeting 
people  at  all.  I  wanted  to  get  my  work  done  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible and  get  away." 

"I  see.  You  were  just  camping  in  the  wilderness,"  she 
laughed. 

"Please  don't." 

"I  know,  Teddy  boy,  it's  mean  to  tease  you,  but  you  do 
tease  so  easily.  You  don't  suppose  I  would  have  asked  you  to 
go  riding  with  me  today,  if  I  had  not  believed  you  were — well 
— nice,  do  you?" 

And  again  she  cantered  away. 

I  let  Satan  take  his  time  catching  up.  Helen's  last  words 
made  me  so  happy  I  wanted  to  think  it  over.  We  were  by  now 
a  long  way  ahead  of  the  others;  they  were  not  even  in  sight. 
Moreover,  it  began  to  be  a  question  with  Satan  and  me  how 
much  longer  we  could  hold  the  pace.  Helen's  instinct  gave 
both  Satan  and  me  a  respite.  We  found  her  resting  by  an  oak 
overhanging  the  road. 

"We  must  wait  for  the  crowd  to  catch  up  with  us,"  she  waved 
to  me.  I  rolled  painfully  off  Satan's  back,  unloosed  the  girths, 
and  allowed  him  to  crop  the  roadside  grass. 

"Tie  him  to  the  fence,"  Helen  suggested.  Satan  was 
promptly  made  fast  to  one  of  those  picturesque  barriers  called 
locally  a  "snake-rail  fence,"  a  conglomeration  of  heavy  split 
timbers  piled  one  upon  the  other  in  alternate  layers,  each  sec- 


I    GO   FOR   A   RIDE   ON   SATAN  89 

tion  forming  nearly  a  right  angle  with  the  adjacent  one. 
Tawny  golden-rod  and  purple  asters  stuck  their  tops  through 
the  fence  rails,  and  many  kinds  of  creeping  vines,  some  already 
scarlet  and  yellow,  helped  bind  the  angles  together.  We 
stretched  out  on  a  little  grassy  bank  facing  the  far  distant  lake, 
which  lay  about  a  mile  away  and  a  hundred  feet  or  so  below 
us.  The  flat  vineyard-covered  country  sloped  downward, 
away  from  us,  to  the  lake  shore. 

"A  pleasant  open  country;"  I  thought,  as  I  relaxed  my  ach- 
ing muscles. 

"Wait  until  you  see  us  after  the  first  real  frosts — when  all 
the  maples  have  turned,"  said  Helen.  It  seemed  natural  and 
matter-of-course  for  her  to  read  my  thoughts. 

"What  a  country  to  write  a  border  ballad  in,"  I  exclaimed. 
"It's  a  pity  nothing  ever  happened  here." 

Helen's  militant  patriotism  was  up  in  arms  at  once.  "If 
that  isn't  like  your  conceited  British  ignorance!  Over  there, 
not  far  from  that  clump  of  trees  by  the  lake,  is  a  little  block- 
house that  has  a  story  of  pioneer  heroism  equal  to — well,  to 
the  bravery  at  the  siege  of  Lucknow,  and  not  many  miles  from 
here  the  battle  of  Lake  Erie  was  fought.  Perhaps  your  Eng- 
lish history  books  don't  mention  that  fight,"  she  flung  at  me 
mischievously. 

"That  is  naturally  wasted  on  me,  because  I'm  not  English," 
I   answered. 

"Well,  you've  lived  there  all  your  life  and  learned  some  of 
their  ways.  You  are  American  only  in  streaks — and  I've 
heard  you  call  England  'home.'  " 

"That's  true,"  I  replied.  "It  seems  curious  to  me  some- 
times— almost  a  man  without  a  country.  But  when  I  said 
nothing  had  happened  in  this  big  place  we  are  sitting  in — it 
feels  like  sitting  in  the  centre  of  a  circle  thousands  of  miles  in 
diameter — I  was  thinking  of  one  of  our  little  English  counties, 
Hertfordshire,  for  example,  where,  in  any  village  you  choose, 
you'll  find  half  the  world  has  happened.  There's  St.  Albans 
— with  the  old  Norman  abbey  church  of  Roman  bricks  sitting 


90  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

high  on  the  hill  above  the  land  on  which  Boadicea  and  her 
warriors  held  the  legions  at  bay." 

"Now  I  know  you  are  a  good  American,"  she  laughed. 

"Why?" 

"Because  no  Englishman  is  ever  sentimental  about  England; 
it  takes  an  American  to  be  that." 

She  had  undoubtedly  scored  a  palpable  hit.  I  dropped  lec- 
turing on  English  history. 

"The  others  should  be  in  sight  by  now,"  Helen  said  after  a 
silence.  I  stood  up  and  looked  along  the  road.  There  was 
no  trace  of  them  to  be  seen. 

"Perhaps  it's  because  we  turned  off  on  to  the  Ridge  Road; 
they've  probably  taken  the  shorter  main  road  by  the  railroad 
tracks.     I  think  we'd  better  ride  on,  Ted." 

Satan,  although  partly  refreshed,  allowed  me  to  mount  with 
an  ill  grace;  he  gave  a  longing  look  backward  whence  we  had 
come,  and  set  forth  after  Helen's  Titania,  his  head  bowed  in 
gloom.  Sprinkled  along  the  ridge,  whose  crest  the  road  fol- 
lowed, were  prosperous-looking  farms.  The  villages  and 
small  towns  clung  closely  to  the  railway  which  ran  along  the 
flat  shelf  between  the  ridge  and  the  lake.  The  remarkable 
straightness  and  uniformity  of  the  ridge  indicated  that  it  had 
itself  at  one  time  been  the  lakeshore  in  the  days  when  even 
this  great  lake  had  been  larger.  After  the  close  confinement 
to  Deep  Harbor  it  was  glorious  to  ride  in  the  open  country 
with  a  road  stretching  indefinitely  before  one.  I  so  far  for- 
got my  aches  and  pains  as  to  burst  into  a  popular  music-hall 
song,  to  which  Satan  listened  attentively  through  one  ear 
turned  backwards  towards  me.  As  I  finished,  Helen  said: 
"I'm  sorry  I'm  not  musical,  Ted,  but  I'm  quite  sure  you  have 
one  of  the  worst  voices  I've  ever  heard."  I  was  not  mortified; 
my  efforts  at  song  always  met  with  a  like  reception.  Only 
extreme  good  spirits  provoked  me  to  melodious  utterance. 
In  general,  I  was  careful  to  remember  this  particular  limita- 
tion. I  apologetically  explained  the  reason  for  my  peculiar 
behaviour.     "It  was  partly  the  fact  that  we  are  rid  of  the 


I   GO  FOR  A  RIDE   ON  SATAN  91 

others  for  a  time,"  I  continued.  "All  things  seem  to  make 
for  good." 

"You  won't  think  so  when  you  hear  what  Miss  Hershey  says 
ahout  it." 

"Miss  Hershey?" 

"Yes,  the  stout  old  maid  on  the  white  horse.  She  is  a  sort  of 
professional  chaperone  for  our  crowd.  The  boys  always  draw 
lots  before  we  go  anywhere  to  see  which  one  of  them  will 
be  her  escort.  It  is  the  loser  who  has  that  pleasure.  Mother 
whispered  many  private  instructions  to  her  this  morning." 

"I  shall'  make  love  to  Miss  Hershey  at  the  first  opportunity." 

"It  can't  be  done,"  laughed  Helen.     "It  has  been  tried." 

"You  called  her  a  professional  chaperon — just  what  do  you 
mean?" 

"Just  that.  She  is  a  social  secretary,  and  all  our  mothers 
hire  her  to  get  up  dances  and  to  look  after  parties  like  ours 
today.  She  is  dreadfully  strict,  naturally,  since  her  bread  and 
butter  depends  upon  it." 

"What  an  extraordinary  business,"  I  exclaimed.  Here,  in- 
deed, was  an  inversion,  so  to  speak  of  woman's  oldest  pro- 
fession— a  thought  which  could  not  be  told  to  a  debutante. 
"I've  heard  of  Spanish  duennas,"  I  went  on,  "but  I  never 
knew  you  could  go  out  into  the  market  place  and  hire  one  at 
so  much  an  hour." 

"She's  of  a  very  fine  old  Southern  family — " 

"All  Southern  families  are  fine — and  old,"  I  interjected. 

"Stop  being  irreverent  to  Miss  Hershey,  Ted.  Her  family 
being  in  reduced  circumstances — " 

"According  to  the  regular  formula — " 

"Shut  up,  Ted.  She  came  North  and  offered  herself  as  a 
social  secretary." 

"You  have  made  me  all  curiosity  for  luncheon." 

"I'll'  give  you  one  word  of  advice,  Ted.  You'd  better  be 
awfully  nice  to  Miss  Hershey  or  you  won't  go  far  in  Deep 
Harbor.  She  and  Mrs.  Hemphill  hold  the  power  of  life  and 
death  over  all  bachelors." 


92  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"What  sort  of  things  does  one  do  to  be  nice  to  her?" 

"Oh,  talk  to  her  about  her  family  and  tell  her  about  your 
grandfather." 

I  laughed:  "But  my  grandfather  was  in  the  Northern  Army; 
ten  to  one  he  stole  Miss  Hershey's  grandfather's  spoons  while 
marching  through  Georgia,  or  something  like  that." 

"It  doesn't  matter.  He  was  a  colonel.  And  you're  not  very 
respectful  to  history.     We  don't  laugh  at  the  Civil  War."  ' 

I  acknowledged  the  rebuke.  We  rode  for  a  mile  or  two  in 
silence — a  privilege  which  our  friendship  had  already  at- 
tained. 

"There's  the  inn,"  Helen  said,  pointing  down  toward  the 
plain  on  our  left.  About  half  a  mile  away  I  saw  a  group  of 
white  buildings  gathered  about  the  main  road.  A  cross  road 
took  us  to  the  front  door.  In  the  stable  yard  we  saw  the 
horses  of  the  others  already  there — among  them,  Miss  Her- 
shey's white  animal  looming  up  with  horrible  distinctness. 
He  looked  positively  symbolic.  When  we  dismounted  we 
found  Miss  Hershey  awaiting  us.  The  horse  had  not  be- 
lied her;  like  it,  she  was  broad  and  imposing  across  the 
withers.  Her  black-plumed  riding  hat  suggested  one  of  Gen- 
eral Morgan's  raiders. 

"Helen,  where  have  you  been?"  she  began  severely.  Her 
Southern  intonation  added  a  doom-like  sound  to  the  interrog- 
atory. 

"We  took  the  Ridge  Road — it  was  pleasanter,"  Helen  replied 
with  an  innocent  calm  which  I  envied  her. 

"At  least,  I  should  think  that  you,  Edward,  were  old  enough 
to  have  a  sense  of  responsibility." 

This  sudden  shift  of  the  attack  threw  me  into  great  confusion. 
Helen  pinched  my  arm,  I  didn't  know  why.  Evidently  some 
defence  was  expected. 

"I — I  didn't  know  we  had — er — lost  you,"  I  murmured, 
unconvincingly  and  ungallantly,  as  I  suddenly  realized,  for  it 
threw  the  onus  upon  Helen. 

"Edward,  you  will  ride  with  me  going  back."  And  Miss 
Hershey  did  something  I  had  always  wanted  to  see:  she  swept 


I   GO   FOR  A   RIDE   ON   SATAN  93 

into  the  inn.  I  had  often  read  of  people  sweeping  away  from 
a  situation  and  wondered  how  they  did  it.  I  was  no  longer  in 
any  doubt.  It  really  was  an  effective  exit.  Helen  laughed, 
most  inappropriately,  I  thought. 

"Ted,  it's  all  right.  You'll  ride  with  me — if  I  want  you  to. 
And  she  called  you'  'Edward'  twice.  That's  an  awfully  good 
sign — she's  very  particular  about  using  Christian  names — 
didn't  you  feel  me  pinch  your  arm  when  she  said  'Edward'?" 

The  chicken  dinner  proved  to  be  a  wonderful  affair.  We 
were  each  served  a  whole  grilled  fowl  together  with  corn  on  the 
cob  and  fried  potatoes,  followed  by  waffles  and  syrup,  all  on  a 
lavish  scale.  The  part  of  me  which  wasn't  stiff  and  sore  from 
riding  was  intensely  hungry;  I  ate,  careless  of  Satan's  feelings. 
The  only  blot  upon  the  meal  was  the  fact  that  Herr  Lieutenant 
von  Oberhausen  most  excitedly  explained  America  to  all  of  us, 
calling  upon  me  to  translate  when  his  scraps  of  English  failed 
him.  He  talked  himself  into  several  word  jams  from  which  it 
was  difficult  for  my  knowledge  of  German  to  extricate  him.  He 
proved  thoroughly  to  his  own  satisfaction  the  standardized 
Teutonic  thesis  that  America  is  basely  commercial,  material, 
and  totally  lacking  in  ideals.  When  he  got  partly  through  and 
paused  for  a  breathing  space — speaking  German  oratorically  is 
one  of  the  most  violent  forms  of  physical  exercise  on  earth, 
particularly  destructive  of  throat  tissues — I  mildly  remarked,  in 
opposition,  that  I  thought  Berlin  rather  careful,  to  use  the 
Scot's  phrase,  how  a  mark  was  spent,  and  skilfully  inventive 
in  discovering  devices  to  earn  those  coins,  considering  that  all 
Germany  was  composed  of  unmaterial,  abstract  idealists.  The 
Herr  Lieutenant  did  not  understand  the  comment  and  asked  for 
its  repetition.  I  stripped  the  statement  of  its  Anglo-Saxon 
irony  and  repeated  it  in  bald  German,  containing  one  mistaken 
gender  and  a  faulty  termination.  The  Herr  Lieutenant  politely 
announced:  "Es  ist  nicht  wahr,"  and  there  we  let  the  matter 
rest. 

After  dinner  he  buttonholed  me  on  the  front  porch.  My 
heart  sank,  for  I  supposed  I  was  in  for  another  lecture.  On 
the  contrary,  he  was  now  in  an  amiable  mood  and  wished  to  go 


94  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

in  for  reminiscences  on  the  pleasures  of  eating  in  Berlin.  He 
had  not  had  anything  one  could  really  call  food  in  America, 
except  at  a  few  German  houses.  As  for  the  unspeakable  Amer- 
ican custom  of  not  serving  wine,  guttural  explosions  were  in- 
adequate to  express  his  feelings.  How  could  one  eat  so  in  cold 
bl'ood?  It  was  on  a  par  with  materialism;  indeed,  a  demon- 
stration of  it.  It  was  "ungemutlich,  unbequem"  and  a  lot  of 
other  disturbing  epithets.  I  let  him  ramble  on,  for  I  had 
learned  long  ago  the  futility  of  argument  with  his  kind.  Helen 
rescued  me  just  as  we  had  reached  Kempinski's  roast  partridge 
on  toast  garnished  with  sauerkraut.  It  was  just  as  well  she 
did,  for  I  was  about  to  say  that  only  idealists  would  add  sauer- 
kraut to  a  delicately  flavoured  game  bird. 

"We  are  going  up  our  ravine,  Ted,"  she  whispered.  The 
Herr  Lieutenant  was  rather  red  in  the  face  as  we  left  him  with- 
out any  particular  ceremony. 

"What  have  you  done  with  Miss  Hershey?" 

"Oh,  that's  all'  right.  I  had  a  talk  with  her  while  Ludwig 
was  relieving  his  feelings  to  you.  She  can  see  no  objection,  if 
we  all  keep  together  going  home." 

Poor  Satan  had  to  have  his  saddle  on  once  more.  I  did  what 
I  could  for  him,  rubbing  his  back  briskly  first  and  inspecting 
his  feet.  There  was  no  gratitude  in  his  eye.  We  picked  our 
way  carefully  up  the  bed  of  a  small,  densely  wooded  ravine, 
over  red  sandstone  shale  through  which  shallow  water  rippled ; 
here  and  there  the  stream  broadened  out  into  mirror-smooth 
pools.  Ferns  and  other  sweet-smelling  growing  things  lined 
the  sides.  Apparently  we  were  in  a  primitive  wilderness  miles 
from  any  inhabitants.  Splendid  oaks  and  chestnuts  shut  out 
the  direct  rays  of  the  sun,  and  we  rode  in  a  cool,  green  twilight 
such  as  one  might  find  in  the  forest  of  Arden  itself.  The  glory 
of  this  country  is  in  its  woodlands,  I  thought.  Such  a  ravine  as 
this  would  make  a  fortune  for  any  railway  in  North  Wales. 
Here  it  was  one  of  thousands,  nay  millions,  unsought  save  by 
an  occasional  wanderer — simply  a  part  of  the  landscape.  At 
last  the  ravine  stopped  abruptly  against  a  sandstone  barrier 
over  which  the  little  stream  fell  lazily  and  mistily.     We  dis- 


I    GO   FOR  A   RIDE   ON   SATAN  95 

mounted,  and  the  horses  shoved  their  noses  eagerly  through  the 
cool  water,  as  we  lay  on  the  mossy  bank  and  stared  at  a  patch 
of  blue  sky  through  the  overhanging  branches.  The  place  had 
been  made  to  order  for  sentimental  young  people. 

"If  this  place  were  in  Herr  Ludwig's  Harz  Mountains  or 
Black  Forest,"  I  said,  "there  would  be  a  little  restaurant  behind 
us,  surrounded  by  white  pebbles,  and  a  sign  pointing  at  this 
ravine  labelled  'Wald  Idyll.'  " 

Helen  laughed:  "It  must  be  rather  convenient  to  have  your 
emotions  labelled  for  you." 

"It  is,"  I  said,  "when  you  are  full  of  food  and  thinking  is 
painful.  You  have  only  to  read  the  signs,  such  as  'Schone 
Aussicht'  or  'Rauchen  verboten,'  and  choose  pleasure  or  anger 
at  will." 

"Ludwig  must  have  been  very  annoying." 
"He  was;  it's  lucky  you  didn't  understand  all  he  said.     He 
says  we  are  base  materialists,"  and  I  slapped  a  mosquito. 

"It  does  irritate,  the  way  Ludwig  puts  it,  of  course;  the  mere 
sound  of  his  language  makes  one  want  to  fight.  But  I  wonder 
if  some  of  it  isn't  true?  How  big  a  part  do  spiritual  things 
play  in  your  life,  Ted?" 

I  sat  up  straight  at  the  abruptness  of  the  challenge.  It  was 
not  an  easy  one  to  meet  with  Helen's  now  solemn  grey  eyes 
upon  me.  They  were  so  large  and  clearly  truthful.  I  was 
curious  concerning  my  own  answer. 

"Spirituality  is  not  what  one  does,  such  as  going  to  church; 

it  is  the  way  one  feels  inside  about  things,"  I  defended,  I  fear 

lamely.     It  wasn't  what  I  had  intended  the  major  premise  to  be. 

"Well,"  Helen  went  on,  "how  do  you  feel  inside,  and  how 

much  do  these  feelings  shape  your  life?" 

I  was  fairly  cornered.  I  had  postponed  self-analysis  on 
this  particular  subject;  I  wasn't  certain  what,  if  anything,  I  did 
believe.  I  lacked  a  good  deal  of  Prospero's  fluent  "philoso- 
phy." 

"Perhaps  I  could  answer  better  if  I  knew  a  little  about  your 
opinions,"  I  dodged. 
"That  isn't  fair,  because  I  asked  first;   however,  I'm  not 


96  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

afraid  to  tell  you."     She  pulled  a  fern  leaf  and  slowly  tore  the 
fronds  apart  as  she  reflected  a  moment.     I  laughed. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at,  Ted?" 

"Seeing  you  tear  that  fern  apart  made  me  think  of  Caliban 
upon  Setebos — the  twenty-first  crab  you  choose  for  destruc- 
tion, while  you're  trying  to  invent  what  you  believe." 

She  flung  the  fern  leaf  from  her  horrified. 

"Ted!     That's  true!     How  could  you  say  it?" 

"Because,  Helen  dear,  I  think  we'll  have  to  find  things  out  for 
ourselves  as  we  go  through  life;  I  for  one  can't  take  them 
ready  made." 

She  leaned  forward,  her  chin  in  her  hands,  her  elbows  rest* 
ing  on  her  drawn-up  knees. 

"Yes — I  was  hashing  over  in  my  mind  to  give  you  as  some* 
thing  original  only  the  things  I'd  already  heard — " 

"That  is  my  objection  to  philosophy — it  is  a  hash  of 
words,"  I  said. 

"Still,  one  does  have  to  have  an  experimental  creed  to  go  on 
with — one  to  change  and  add  to,  but  to  keep  one  steadfast 
meanwhile." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "Mine  is  foolishly  practical:  be  decent, 
play  fair,  and  take  the  life  of  no  living  creature." 

"You  are  inconsistent  right  at  the  start,"  she  complained. 
"If  you  lived  up  to  your  creed  you'd  be  a  vegetarian." 

"I  admit  the  weakness  in  the  armour,  but  I  mean  shooting 
and  killing  beasts  and  birds  for  the  fun  of  it.  Mosquitoes  are 
excepted. 

"You  keep  your  creed  pretty  firmly  on  earth." 

"That's  where  I  live  at  present,  Grey  Eyes." 

"Ted,  dear,  I  don't  think  you  have  improved  upon  the  Ser- 
mon on  the  Mount,  not  even  for  practical  purposes." 

"I  think,  Helen,  you've  rather  shown  me  up,"  I  acknowl- 
edged.    Her  hand  quickly  sought  my  arm. 

"No,  Ted  dear.  I  wasn't  trying  to  outargue  you;  I  wanted  to 
know  what  you  really  thought  about  things." 

"I  improvised  my  creed  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  Prob- 
ably there  is  more  to  it." 


I   GO   FOR  A  RIDE   ON   SATAN  97 

She  got  to  her  feet  with  her  precious  radiant  laugh:  "We 
must  go  back  to  the  Inn,  Ted.  Miss  Hershey  will  be  fuming 
because  the  party  can't  start  for  home  without  us." 

It  was  strange  how  naturally  and  unconsciously  we  had 
grown  in  intimacy  and  friendship  during  the  day,  leaping  over 
what  I  had  always  imagined  would  take  months  of  time.  Yet 
I  am  quite  certain,  as  I  look  backward  now  over  the  entries 
in  my  diary,  that  no  serious  thoughts  of  love  had  yet  entered 
our  heads.  We  were  building  away  at  a  friendship,  uncertain 
as  to  how  elaborate  the  superstructure  was  to  be,  or,  to  be 
more  precise,  not  questioning  the  future  at  all.  To  change  the 
figure,  we  were  quite  content  to  explore  one  another's  souls 
and  to  marvel  at  the  mystic  things  we  found  there.  Neither  of 
us  had  quite  reached  complete  frankness,  but  we  were  very 
near.  I  fell  asleep  that  night  with  the  realization  that  Deep 
Harbor  had  suddenly  become  an  intimate  place  in  which  I 
lived. 


Chapter   Seven 
i  have  the  first  great  adventure 

OCTOBER  turned  into  November  and  angry  hints  of  on- 
coming winter  almost  daily  shrilled  across  the  lake, 
scattering  the  heaps  of  yellow  leaves  on  Myrtle  Boulevard 
or  playing  the  dickens  with  signs  and  hats  on  State  Street.  The 
nights  were  raw  and  cold;  the  night-shift  at  the  factory  ate 
their  midnight  lunches  in  the  boiler  room,  a  place  which  in 
July  had  seemed  one  of  the  lowest  circles  of  the  Inferno. 
Business  was  at  a  most  critical  stage,  and  Knowlton  drove  away 
at  it  day  and  night.  We  were,  as  he  expressed  it,  just  at  the 
turn  of  the  tide;  it  was  a  toss-up  whether  we  should  be  swept  on 
to  the  rocks  or  out  into  the  sea  of  reasonable  prosperity.  I 
saw  comparatively  little  of  him,  for  he  had  not  yet  released  me 
from  night  duty.  I  was  getting  quite  accustomed  to  this  noc- 
turnal existence;  I  had  actually  grown  to  like  it,  because  it 
left  my  afternoons  free  to  go  riding  with  Helen.  I  went  to  bed 
about  half  past  seven  in  the  morning,  got  up  around  three,  and 
three-thirty  would  find  Helen  and  me  trotting  sedately  up 
Myrtle  Boulevard — a  sight  to  which  the  latter  had  become  so 
hardened  that  not  a  verandah  fluttered  as  we  passed  by.  In- 
deed, the  cool  weather  had  driven  even  the  most  hardened  gos- 
sip-scouts within.  Helen's  girl  friends  had  tacitly  accepted  the 
situation,  and  at  dinners  or  card  parties  Helen  and  I  were 
always  paired  off  together  by  tactful  hostesses.  None  of  the 
first  riding  party  went  with  us  now.  Miss  Hershey  was  chape- 
roning at  White  Sulphur,  although  there  were  rumours  she 
would  return  for  Christmas.  "Mother"  was  querulous  and 
fretful,  particularly  when  we  rode  on  stormy  days;  otherwise 
she  had  practically  ceased  active  opposition.  Her  attitude 
now  was  resigned,  if  hurt,  patience,  varied  with  occasional 
Cassandra-like  utterances  of  dire  foreboding. 

98 


THE   FIRST   GREAT  ADVENTURE       99 

Saturdays  were  now  thrice  blessed,  for  the  factory  shut  down 
from  six  o'clock  Saturday  evening  until  midnight  Sunday, 
leaving  the  whole  of  Saturday  free  for  me,  if  I  kept  Sunday 
for  sleeping.  We  therefore  reserved  Saturdays  for  our  longer 
expeditions  into  the  rolling  hill  country  behind  us.  (In  the 
geography  of  Deep  Harbor  "the  front"  was  the  lake.)  Soon 
hard  frosts  would  come  to  make  the  roads  impassable;  we 
strove  to  do  all  the  exploring  possible  before  that  should  hap- 
pen. I  had  found  another  horse  which  a  modest  weekly  pay- 
ment reserved  for  my  exclusive  use.  He  was  a  small  Western 
pony,  young  and  hard  as  nails.  On  frosty  days  he  often  tried 
to  climb  into  the  upper  air,  but  he  was  to  be  preferred  to  the 
misanthropic  Satan,  who  had  fallen  to  the  sad  fate  of  hauling 
a  grocer's  wagon.  Nevertheless  Helen  and  I  retained  a  warm 
spot  in  our  hearts  for  old  Satan  and  often  carried  him  apples 
and  sugar.  In  a  large  measure  we  owed  him  our  friendship. 
It  was  an  undeserved  misfortune  that  it  had  come  too  late  in 
life  for  Satan  to  keep  up  with.  Helen  named  the  new  pony 
Starbright,  because  of  the  white  star  in  the  centre  of  his  dark 
chestnut  forehead.  We  both  agreed  that  the  name  revealed  no 
great  powers  of  originality. 

On  the  second  Saturday  in  November  we  planned  one  of 
our  longest  quests.  We  both  regretfully  admitted  it  would 
probably  be  the  last  until  spring;  either  snow  or  frozen  ground 
was  due  at  any  time.  The  day  was  gusty  and  overcast; 
"Mother"  tried  every  whine  in  her  repertoire  to  dissuade  us 
from  going.  Helen's  obstinacy  refused  to  yield,  and  off  we 
went,  taking  our  luncheons  with  us.  On  a  hillside,  by  the 
edge  of  the  wood,  several  miles  away,  we  dismounted  and 
built  a  camp  fire  against  a  large  boulder.  Helen  endeavoured 
to  instruct  me  in  the  art  of  camp  cooking,  a  skill  which  she 
maintained  she  had  learned  one  summer  in  the  woods.  It  con- 
sisted principally  of  trying  to  bal'ance  a  flimsy  piece  of  bacon 
on  a  forked  stick.  The  instant  the  heat  reached  the  meat 
it  would  curl  up  and  fall  into  the  redhot  coals.  It  then  became 
my  duty  to  burn  my  fingers  in  an  attempt  at  rescue  before  the 
bacon  turned  to  a  cinder.      In  this  way  we  spoiled  a  fair  amount 


100  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

by  the  time  we  had  each  eaten  two  or  three  scorched  slices.  I 
commented  on  the  fact  that  camp  cooking  seemed  uneconomical, 
to  say  nothing  of  its  lack  of  finesse.  Helen  laughingly 
guessed  she  was  "out  of  practice,"  so  we  toasted  marshmallows 
instead,  a  form  of  cooking  in  which  we  were  more  proficient. 
The  warmth  of  the  fire  was  pleasant,  and  we  lingered  on,  care- 
less of  our  original  purpose  to  penetrate  far  into  the  hills.  It 
was  Helen's  turn  to  tell  me  of  herself,  which  she  did,  half 
shyly,  half  whimsically. 

The  eighteen  years  of  her  life  had  been  passed  in  Deep  Har- 
bor, except  for  two  winters  at  a  large  New  England  boarding- 
school',  or  during  brief  visits  to  school  friends  in  New  York. 
At  school  she  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  come  under  the  influ- 
ence of  a  rare  kind  of  teacher — one  with  the  power  of  reveal- 
ing the  world.  Helen  spoke  of  her  with  dreamy  affection,  as 
of  one  who  had  opened  a  gate  and  shown  the  beauty  of  an  un- 
suspected garden  lying  beyond.  Having  shown  it,  she  had 
left  Helen  to  wander  in  it  at  will.  Thus  it  came  about  that 
this  young  girl,  native  of  a  provincial  town,  had  found  the  path 
leading  to  citizenship  of  the  world.  The  maturity  of  her  judg- 
ment was  astonishing;  it  implied  an  experience  of  life  which 
I  knew  was  impossibl'e.  I  often  found  myself  deferring  to  her 
opinion  or  leaning  upon  her  advice,  for  her  calm,  level  deci- 
sions brushed  aside  my  cobwebs  of  sentiment  and  substituted 
truth  for  the  meshes  of  whim  or  impulse.  Day  by  day  I  had 
grown  more  dependent  upon  her  until  I  expressed  no  opinion, 
even  concerning  business,  without  first  submitting  it  for  her 
approval.  With  all  this  she  was  a  fun-loving  child,  full  of 
mischief  and  humour,  or  occasionally  tempest-swept  by  sudden 
child-like  anger,  when  the  storm  clouds  in  her  eyes  would 
frighten  me.  After  anger  would  follow  such  a  melting  tender- 
ness as  made  me  long  to  kneel  at  her  feet  and  beg  forgiveness 
for  having  caused  her  displeasure. 

Curiously  enough  we  neither  of  us  analyzed  what  was  hap- 
pening to  us.  It  seemed  natural  that  we  preferred  to  be  to- 
gether— even  to  be  alone — and  we  were  content  with  the  word 
"friendship"  as  a  complete  explanation.     Neither  of  us  ques- 


THE  FIRST  GREAT  ADVENTURE   101 

tioned  it  or  looked  beyond  our  next  Saturday  together.  We 
must  have  been  very  young  and  inexperienced.  Once  in  a  while 
Knowlton  had  asked  me,  with  his  Harlequin's  grin,  how  I  was 
getting  on;  old  Hemphill  at  the  factory  had  stumbled  his  way 
through  a  clumsy  joke  aimed  at  me:  neither  followed  the  sub- 
ject very  far.  Helen  was  not  a  topic  I  would  allow  discussed; 
there  was  something  so  far  beyond  the  comprehension  of  the 
world  in  our  attitude  toward  each  other.  Helen's  own  friends, 
I  discovered,  had  passed  from  teasing  to  regard  us  as  a  fait  ac- 
compli, and  thereafter  held  their  peace.  Here  again  we  looked 
upon  their  behaviour  as  simply  caused  by  their  lack  of  under- 
standing.    Poor  old  world,  how  we  pitied  it! 

Today  we  were  playing  one  of  our  new  games — I  don't  know 
which  of  us  thought  of  it  first.  The  game  was  founded  upon 
the  Morte  a" Arthur,  and  we  were  in  search  of  the  questing 
beast.  Helen  stretched  comfortably  before  the  camp  fire  and 
read  aloud  to  me  from  her  Mallory,  which  I  carried  in  my 
coat  pocket,  the  description  of  this  mediaeval  animal.  As  she 
finished  we  listened  for  the  noise  to  come  from  the  woodl'and  on 
the  edge  of  the  hillside  pasture  in  which  we  were.  It  sounds 
ridiculous  to  tell  of  it  now,  but  it  was  as  real  to  us  as  the  play 
of  children  is  to  them.  Beyond  the  edge  of  the  wood  there  lay 
strange  adventures — we  had  no  doubt  of  it.  Deep  Harbor 
faded  from  us  like  a  conjurer's  vision,  and  the  fields,  hills  and 
woods  became  the  enchanted  reality.  We  peopled  it  with  all 
the  crew  of  fairy  folk  and  ourselves  assumed  roles  appropri- 
ate to  our  fellowship.  How  could  ordinary  Deep  Harborites 
understand  such  a  game  or  dream  that  this  was  one  of  the 
secrets  of  our  friendship — they  who  thought  only  of  such 
mundane  things  as  love  and  marriage?  Would  they  not  laugh 
at  the  Lady  Grey  Eyes  on  her  cream-coloured  palfrey,  escorted 
by  her  trusty  knight,  Edward  of  Over-Seas?  To  be  sure  the 
Lady  Helen's  horse  was  light  chestnut,  not  cream,  but  in  her 
magic  capacity  the  mare  assumed  a  new  tint. 

As  we  scanned  the  woodland,  wondering  what  castle  it  hid  or 
whether  a  hermit  dwelt  in  its  shade,  we  were  aware  of  a  tawny 
yellow  animal  approaching  us.     By  his  manner  it  should  have 


102  I  WALKED   IN  ARDElN 

been  a  dog,  but  the  peculiarity  of  its  build  and  complexion 
left  some  doubt.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  not  the  questing 
beast,  for  his  coming  was  silent.  Helen  clung  to  me  with  de- 
light; the  creature  was  unusual  enough,  seen  through  our  im- 
agination, to  look  like  the  bearer  of  adventure.  Carefully  he 
circled  us  with  an  upstanding  waving  yellow  signal  of  friendly 
purpose.  I  whistled.  It  awoke  a  sympathetic  response,  for  he 
bounded  up  to  us  and  laid  his  head  in  the  Lady  Grey  Eyes'  lap 
in  token  of  obeisance.  Dog  there  was  no  denying  he  was,  but 
one  whose  ancestors  had  mingled  with  strange  company. 
Chief  among  his  forebears  had  been  a  bull  dog;  the  others  had 
been  of  that  cadium-hued  race  to  be  found  sleeping  in  the 
dust  of  village  streets.  From  ear  to  ear  of  his  square  bulldog 
head  there  spread  an  expansive  smile,  whence  depended  a  most 
liquid  tongue.  He  kissed  my  hand,  thus  completing  his  hom- 
age. 

"Ted,  I  want  him.  He's  mine!"  the  Lady  Grey  Eyes 
declared. 

"On  my  honour  as  a  knight,  you  shall  have  him,  if  no  farmer 
catches  us  in  the  theft,  or  if  he  does,  we'll  try  what  filthy  lucre 
will  accomplish,"  I  replied,  somewhat  diverging  from  the 
purity  of  Mallory's  style.  I  made  fast  the  prize  with  a  piece 
of  string.  There  seemed  no  need,  for  he  accepted  gratefully 
whatever  command  we  laid  upon  him. 

"What  name  shall  our  new  companion  bear?"  I  asked. 
Helen  regarded  her  treasure  trove  critically.  In  spite  of  the 
misalliance  of  one  of  his  ancestors,  our  friend  was  unquestion- 
ably mainly  plebeian  except  for  the  sternness  of  his  tenacious 
profile.  The  latter  gave  him  an  air  unlike  any  other  dog. 
His  amiability,  however,  was  unquenchable. 

"He  ought  to  be  called  'Bill'  if  it  wasn't  for  his  face,"  mused 
Helen.  "What  do  you  say  to  'Sir  Leonidas  de  la  Patte 
Jaune'?" 

"It  strikes  me  as  a  bit  beyond  his  linguistic  ability;  how- 
ever, just  as  you  say." 

"He  is  lion-coloured — hence  'Leonidas.'  "  she  explained — I 


THE   FIRST   GREAT  ADVENTURE      103 

had  some  doubts  concerning  this  etymology — "and  yellow  paws 
are  undoubtedly  characteristic  of  the  majority  of  his  family." 
I  nodded,  for  her  latter  argument  was  flawless. 

"What  shall  we  call  him  for  short?"  The  practical  world 
would  assert  itself  at  times. 

"Leonidas,  of  course,"  said  Helen  with  dignity.  "The  rest  of 
his  name  is  part  of  our  secret." 

I  sprang  to  my  feet.  "The  questing  beast!"  I  exclaimed. 
"Let's  test  Sir  Leonidas  on  an  adventure.  Let  him  track  the 
questing  beast  through  the  forest!" 

Helen  gave  a  little  cry  of  joy,  her  eyes  shining. 

"Come,  Sir  Leonoidas  de  la  Patte  Jaune!"  she  called.  We 
are  about  to  lay  a  high  adventure  upon  thee ! "  Leonidas  tilted 
his  head,  listening  to  her,  and  wagged  his  tail  at  varying  speeds. 
"Over  there  in  yonder  woods  is  a  marvellous  questing  beast 
which  we  have  taken  an  oath  to  bring  to  Arthur's  Court  ere  a 
year  and  a  day  have  passed.  Thou  shalt  aid  us  in  the  quest. 
It  is  only  fair  to  warn  thee  that  this  task  is  fraught  with  dire 
peril,  but  thy  cheerful  soul'  shall  carry  thee  safely  through  all. 
Sir  Edward  of  Over-Seas  and  I,  the  Lady  Grey  Eyes,  shall  be 
ever  at  thy  side."     She  untied  the  string. 

"Go  get  him!  Sic  'em!"  I  said.  Which  of  us  he  under- 
stood the  better,  I  do  not  know.  At  any  rate  he  was  off  at  a 
bound  toward  the  woods,  and  Helen  followed  with  speed 
afoot. 

Back  and  forth  we  ranged  through  dense  underbrush,  Leoni- 
das making  noise  enough,  as  he  crashed  over  dry  twigs,  to 
frighten  away  a  menagerie  of  wild  animals.  Helen  shouted 
with  laughter  at  his  clumsy  eagerness  to  serve  us.  We  worked 
our  way  into  a  clearing,  and  here  Leonidas*  excitement  re- 
doubled. This  time  he  was  clearly  on  the  track  of  something. 
Helen  was  just  a  trifle  nervous  at  the  change  from  make-be- 
lieve. 

"What  may  one  expect  in  these  woods?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing  but  woodchucks  and  rabbits,  unless — "  and  she 
gave  a  scream  that  startled  me.     "Call  him  quick,  Ted,  quick!" 


104  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

she  implored.  What  unknown  danger  were  we  walking  into? 
I  wondered,  but  I  called  Leonidas,  and  none  too  soon.  There 
emerged  from  a  thicket  a  small  black  and  white  animal. 

"Run — run  for  your  life,  Ted!"  The  tone  of  her  voice 
brought  instant  obedience.  We  fled  in  miserable  panic  back  to 
tour  pasture,  followed,  luckily,  by  Leonidas.  As  we  reached 
the  remains  of  our  camp  fire,  Helen  sank  exhausted  with  laugh- 
ter, great  tears  streaming  down  her  cheeks. 

"Ted,  it  was  a  skunk,"  she  gasped,  much  as  Mrs.  Siddons 
must  have  spoken  a  famous  line  of  Lady  Macbeth's.  Leonidas 
lay  panting,  his  nose  between  his  paws.  I  wiped  the  sweat  of 
exertion  and  relief  from  my  forehead. 

"That's  the  worst  of  adventures,"  I  said,  after  a  pause. 
"The  stories  never  mention  the  unpleasant  odour  one  is  apt  to 
encounter  by  the  way." 

"Ted,  that's  the  narrowest  escape  we  ever  had.  What  would 
mother  have  said?"  and  she  rocked  again  with  laughter. 

"My  immediate  concern  would  not  have  been  'mother,'  if 
anything  had  happened,"  I  commented  reflectively.  "Leoni- 
das," and  I  turned  to  him,  "I  hope  you  have  learned  the  lesson 
of  never  overplaying  your  hand.  We  sent  you  on  one  adven- 
ture, and  you  got  us  into  one  not  on  the  orthodox  list." 
Leonidas  cocked  one  eye  at  me  and  feebly  wagged  his  tail. 

"Ted,  those  bushes  have  made  my  hair  a  sight,"  Helen  said, 
and  without  more  ado,  tumbled  it  all  down  on  her  shoulders. 
Something  caught  my  throat;  I  had  never  seen  her  with  her 
hair  down,  and  the  added  beauty  it  gave  her  almost  hurt.  I 
sat  silent  and  motionless,  staring  at  her  while  she  combed  it 
out  as  if  she  were  doing  the  most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world. 

"Don't  put  it  up — just  yet,"  and  I  made  a  slight  gesture  to 
stop  her,  as  she  began  to  twist  it  into  a  mass. 

"Why  not,  Ted?  It's  untidy  enough  as  it  is,"  and  her  grey 
eyes  opened  wide  at  me.     I  couldn't  explain. 

"Please  leave  it." 

"Silly  boy,  if  you  want  me  to,"  she  laughed,  and  tossed  it 
back  with  a  shake  of  her  head. 


THE   FIRST   GREAT  ADVENTURE       105 

"May  I  touch  it?"  I  begged,  stretching  forth  my  hand.  In-> 
stinctively  she  drew  away  slightly. 

"I  don't  know,  Ted,"  and  we  looked  at  each  other  a  long 
minute. 

"Please,"  I  coaxed.  She  hesitated  and  then  she  began  to  do 
it  up. 

"I  don't  think  you'd  better,"  she  said  so  low  I  could  scarcely 
hear  her.  "It  isn't  like  us,  Ted."  That  answer  was  so  final 
that  I  did  not  dream  of  questioning  it. 

"I'm  sorry  I  asked — forgive  me,  Helen  dear,"  and  I  got  up 
to  gather  sticks  with  which  to  revive  our  fire.  Leonidas  re- 
mained on  guard  by  Helen's  side.  While  I  was  away  I  led  the 
horses  over  to  a  pond  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  watered  them. 
Upon  my  return  Helen  was  looking  her  imperturbable  neat 
self.  We  read  the  Mallory  together  before  the  fire  until  the 
sinking  November  sun  warned  us  to  go.  The  problem  arose: 
would  Leonidas  follow  our  horses?  He  could  not  be  led  on 
a  leash,  and  without  Leonidas  Helen  refused  to  return.  Ex- 
periment was  necessary;  to  our  joy  Leonidas  remained  indif- 
ferent whether  we  rode  or  walked  afoot.  He  was  content  to 
follow  either  way.  With  some  trepidation  we  picked  our  way 
by  the  first  farm-house  we  passed,  expecting  either  to  be  chal- 
lenged to  surrender  the  dog  or  else  to  see  Leonidas  dash  home; 
neither  of  these  things  happened.  It  was  impossible  to  canvass 
the  countryside,  house  by  house,  looking  for  his  owner — at 
least,  I  thus  stifled  Helen's  conscience  on  this  point,  for,  faced 
with  the  necessity  of  carrying  him  off,  she  suddenly  felt  we 
ought  to  pay  for  him.     Leonidas  simply  came. 

The  air  grew  chillier  and  chillier;  Helen  started  off  on  a 
brisk  canter  to  warm  us  up.  Along  a  soft  dirt  road  we  went  at 
a  good  clip,  Leonidas  trailing  desperately  in  the  rear.  We 
were  on  the  crest  of  a  hill  overlooking  distant  Deep  Harbor  and 
the  lake.  The  soft  coal  smoke  lay  black  over  the  town,  blend- 
ing with  the  lighter  greys  of  the  water  and  sky.  All  outlines 
were  blurred  and  softened  in  the  half  light,  and  Deep  Harbor 
might  have  been  a  city  of  dreams.     Ahead  of  me,  Helen  must 


106  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

have  been  thinking  something  the  same,  for  she  pointed  toward 
it  with  a  sweeping  gesture  of  her  arm. 

As  she  did  so  her  horse  caught  a  loose  stone,  stumbled,  and 
fell.  I  had  one  glimpse  of  her  lying  motionless  in  the  road, 
after  her  horse  scrambled  up  and  dashed  on,  riderless;  the 
next  I  knew,  I  was  at  her  side,  my  own  horse  abandoned,  hold- 
ing her  tightly  in  my  arms. 

I  was  dazed  with  the  suddenness  of  it  all;  for  a  moment  I 
could  not  think  and  did  nothing  but  hug  her  close,  her  head 
against  my  shoulder,  as  I  bent  over  her  face  and  whispered, 
"Helen,  dear!     Helen!"  over  and  over  again. 

At  last  she  opened  her  eyes  of  her  own  accord,  for  I  had 
taken  no  rational  steps  to  aid  her,  and  smiled  at  me.  I  held 
her  still  more  closely,  delirious  with  joy;  her  eyes  grew  serious 
as  she  looked  back  at  me,  until  they  melted  into  the  tenderest 
grey  any  man  has  ever  seen.  Then  we  both  understood;  there 
was  no  need  of  further  words;  her  hand  sought  mine  and 
rested  there  with  quiet  confidence. 

"It's  my  knee,  Ted.  I've  wrenched  it,"  she  whispered. 
"I  must  have  fainted — that  wasn't  like  me,  Teddy  dear,  was 
it?"  Again  she  smiled  such  a  happy  little  smile  that  actually 
a  tear  from  my  eyes  fell  upon  her  cheek. 

I  laid  her  gently  down,  roused  to  some  vague  trace  of  com- 
monsense.  "I'll  get  some  water,"  I  said,  looking  helplessly 
around  at  an  arid  country  road. 

"It's  much  more  important,  Ted,  to  catch  the  horses." 
There  was  truth  in  this.  Mine  was  quietly  cropping  grass  a 
few  yards  away;  Helen's  was  doing  the  same  about  a  hundred 
yards  further  on.  Leonidas  joined  us,  evidently  in  deep  con- 
cern. It  was  a  simple  matter  to  catch  my  horse,  for  he  had 
been  trained  to  come  at  command.  Helen  refused  again  to 
let  me  help  her  until  I  had  made  a  try  for  her  animal.  I 
mounted  and  rode  cautiously  up  to  the  mare;  she  gave  a  toss 
of  her  head  and  was  off  for  a  few  yards  further.  We  repeated 
this  several  times  with  the  same  results.  Next  I  dismounted 
and    advanced    with    elaborate    flattery.     Useless;    the    beast 


THE  FIRST  GREAT  ADVENTURE   107 

would  not  allow  herself  to  be  caught.  I  was  in  despair,  im- 
agining Helen  to  be  suffering  pain  which  somehow  my  presence 
might  alleviate,  while  this  confounded  horse  was  taking  me 
straight  away.  Apparently,  however,  the  horse  tired  of  the 
game  after  a  few  more  minutes,  or  else  her  feminine  nature 
desired  to  assert  itself  in  a  new  way;  as  I  was  about  to  give  it 
up  as  a  bad  job  she  unexpectedly  permitted  me  to  walk  right 
up  to  her  and  seize  the  bridle.  Needless  to  say,  the  three  of 
us  were  not  long  in  returning  to  Helen. 

She  was  sitting  up  with  one  foot  straight  out  in  front  of  her, 
Leonidas  proudly  beside  her.  "I  can  stand  on  it,  Ted,"  she 
called  out,  "but  riding  is  out  of  the  question."  It  was  rapidly 
growing  dark,  and  we  were  several  miles  from  home.  The 
roads  we  chose  for  riding  were  the  unfrequented  by-ways;  it 
seemed  unlikely,  therefore,  that  there  was  much  hope  of  any- 
thing passing.  Also  it  was  cold.  These  things  we  ruefully 
enumerated  to  each  other. 

"Do  you  feel  much  pain?"  I  asked  when  we  had  exhausted 
the  list  of  other  disadvantages  in  the  situation.  We  both 
avoided  reference  to  what  we  knew  had  happened  when  she 
first  opened  her  eyes  in  my  arms. 

"It  hurts  only  if  I  bend  it.  I  don't  dare  take  my  riding 
boot  off  for  fear  I  couldn't  get  it  on  again.  It's  only  a  twist 
— nothing  broken,  or  I  couldn't  stand.  Isn't  it  ridiculous, 
Ted?"  and  she  laughed. 

"I  don't  want  to  leave  you  here  alone — in  the  dark — while 
I  get  help,  dearest — and  yet  I  don't  see  what  else  to  do." 

"Indeed,  you  won't  leave  me  alone,  Ted,  if  I  stay  here  all' 
night.  We'll  just  wait.  Perhaps  I'll  be  able  to  walk  after  a 
little  rest." 

"There  ought  to  be  a  farm  near  by — I  could  telephone  from 
there—" 

"You'll  sit  right  here  with  me,  dear,"  she  said  with  finality. 
"This  whole  country  is  full  of  tramps — they're  all  making  for 
the  big  cities  at  this  time  of  the  year." 

I  knew  this  to  be  true;  they  were  to  be  seen  everywhere. 
Deep  Harbor's  freight  yards  were  a  kind  of  clearing  house  for 


108  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

tramps  stealing  rides  east  and  west.  They  camped,  by  night, 
for  miles  about  the  town.  The  mere  thought  of  them  made 
me  sit  promptly  by  Helen's  side.  We  sat  for  a  long  time  in 
silence. 

"It  is  true,  Ted,  isn't  it?"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"And  to  think  we  never  guessed  it!" 

"Not  until  I  saw  you  lying  in  the  road,"  I  said  with  a  slight 
catch  in  my  voice,  as  the  picture  flashed  through  my  mind 
again.  Her  warm,  womanly  hand  crept  into  mine,  and  once 
more  there  was  silence.  We  were  both  too  overwhelmed  with 
this  new  miracle  to  talk  about  it.  I  could  not  see  her  face,  for 
the  night  was  too  dark.  I  don't  think  it  occurred  to  either  of 
us  that  we  had  not  as  yet  exchanged  a  lovers'  kiss  or  even 
mentioned  the  word  "love."  We  both  wanted  a  little  time  to 
think  about  and  feel  our  happiness.  Leonidas  curled  up  at: 
our  feet  and  slept.  She  reached  down  and  stroked  his  head 
gently. 

"You  won't  laugh  at  me  for  wanting  to  keep  Sir  Leonidas  de 
la  Patte  Jaune  now,  will  you,  Ted  dear?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  smiling  in  spite  of  myself  to  think  what 
strange  forms  the  bearers  of  romance  could  take.  Then  came 
a  different  mood.  The  world  was  glowing,  building  beautiful 
fantastic  shapes  and  sounds  in  my  mind,  in  which  there 
swirled  black  smoke  from  factory  chimneys,  grey  eyes  and 
flowing  hair,  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs,  Helen's  laugh,  the 
ugly  square  face  of  a  yellow  dog — a  tumbling,  changing  med- 
ley of  sound  and  colour,  half  ecstatic,  half  terrible,  for 
through  it  all  darted  again  and  again  the  vision  of  Helen  lying 
still  and  motionless  upon  the  road — an  insistent  bass  accom- 
paniment striving  to  drown  the  shriller,  sweeter  notes  of  joy. 
I  could  not  speak.  I  tried  to  say  something  to  Helen,  to  tell 
her  something  of  what  I  felt,  but  I  could  only  press  her  hand 
and  hold  it  tight.  "'Here  is  the  true  beginning  of  life,"  my 
thoughts  cried  to  me.  "Remember  that  with  the  beginning  of 
life  also  begins  the  end,"  rumbled  that  terrifying  bass.  Why 
— why  should  fear  come  to  me  on  this  day  of  all  days?     Was 


THE  FIRST  GREAT  ADVENTURE   109 

it  some  ancient  racial  superstition  of  primitive  man's  that 
when  the  gods  smiled  then  they  plotted  evil? — was  it  such  a 
childish  inherited  instinct  as  this  that  had  seized  me?  But 
dread  would  not  shake  off.  "The  Greeks  believed  great  hap- 
piness to  be  dangerous;  the  mediaeval  monks  scourged  it  from 
their  bodies;  the  Puritans  cursed  it,"  thundered  that  bass,  cry- 
ing down  the  "I  love  her"  singing  in  my  ears. 

"If  you  will  let  me  lean  upon  your  shoulder,  I  think  I  can 
walk  now,"  came  Helen's  gentle  voice,  bringing  me  with  a 
start  from  the  whirlpool  of  my  thoughts.  I  stood  up.  "What 
were  you  thinking,  Teddy?"  she  asked  shyly  as  I  stooped  to 
help  her  to  her  feet. 

"You  know  the  Tannhauser  overture?"  I  whispered. 

"Yes." 

"Listen  to  it  and  you'll  guess  a  little  how  my  head  sounds." 

I  put  one  arm  around  her  and  led  the  horses  as  best  I  could 
with  my  left  hand.  We  made  slow  and  painful  progress  down 
the  road.  Helen  was  as  plucky  as  I  knew  she  would  be;  al- 
though each  step  was  agony,  not  a  whimper  came  from  her 
lips.  About  half  a  mile  from  where  we  started  the  light  of  a 
farm  appeared;  we  staggered  through  the  little  swinging  gate, 
arousing  a  pack  of  dogs  which  made  more  noise  than  the 
Seven  Champions  of  Christendom.  With  difficulty  we  re- 
strained Leonidas  from  going  to  a  noble  death  in  single  combat 
against  the  lot.  It  took  as  heavy  knocking  as  upon  the  gates 
of  Macbeth's  castle  to  arouse  the  farmer  within,  who  finally 
opened  the  door  a  distrustful  crack  and  stood  surveying  us  by 
the  light  of  a  glass  oil  lamp  held  above  his  head.  He  was  clad 
in  rubber  boots,  trousers,  and  a  night  shirt;  the  expression  up- 
on his  face  did  not  indicate  any  anxiety  to  ask  us  to  partake 
of  bread  and  salt  with  him. 

"Have  you  a  telephone?"  I  asked.  "This  lady  was  thrown 
from  her  horse  and  hurt.     I  want  to  get  help." 

He  reflectively  turned  all  this  over  in  his  mind,  evidently  con- 
sidering the  request  and  its  accompanying  statement  from  all 
conceivable  angles.  Leonidas  tactlessly  growled  at  him  and 
incurred  severe  reproof  from  Helen. 


110  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

"Please  let  me  in,"  she  pleaded.  "I  want  very  much  to  sit 
down."  I  was  meditating  choking  consent  out  of  the  impassive 
sour-faced  old  man.  A  high-pitched  nasal  voice  called  out 
from  the  head  of  the  stairs :  "Henery,  don't  you  dast  to  give  no 
tramps  anything  to  eat." 

"I'll  pay  you  for  your  trouble,"  I  said,  producing  a  few 
bills. 

"I  reckon  I  don't  have  to  be  paid  for  no  trouble,"  the  old 
codger  snarled.  I  saw  that  I  had  made  another  error  of  tact. 
"What  you  doing  out  gallivantin'  around  this  time  of  night?" 
he  added. 

"We  are  not  out  from  choice,"  I  reminded  him.  "This  lady 
has  had  an  accident  and  is  seriously  hurt.  All  we  ask  is  to  be 
allowed  to  stay  here  until  we  get  help  from  town." 

"Mary!"  he  turned  and  shouted,  "c'mon  down  here  a  min- 
ute." All  this  time  he  carefully  guarded  the  door  so  that  en- 
trance was  not  possible.  I  had  the  intelligence  at  last  to  seat 
Helen  on  the  porch  steps  while  "Mary"  made  suitable  toilet 
above  stairs.  The  old  woman  came  down  in  a  red  flannel 
mother  Hubbard,  from  which  stray  ruffles  of  her  nightgown 
protruded. 

"What's  all  this  foolishness  about,  Henry?"  she  inquired 
sharply. 

"Young  fellow  and  his  girl — says  she's  hurt,"  Henry  re- 
plied. 

"Are  they  married?" 

"Dunno.     I  don't  take  much  stock  in  the  story  myself." 

"If  you'll  allow  me  to  explain — "  I  ventured,  thinking  it 
about  time  1  took  a  hand  in  the  dialogue. 

"Tell  them  my  name,  Ted.  Every  one  around  here  knows 
father,"  Helen  suggested.  Why  had  I  not  thought  of  this  be- 
fore? 

"Miss  Claybourne  has  had  a  fall  from  her  horse  and  is  hurt," 
I  began. 

"Martin  Claybourne's  girl?"  the  old  woman  interrupted. 

"Yes." 

"Lives  on  Myrtle  Boulevard?" 


THE  FIRST  GREAT  ADVENTURE   111 

"Yes." 

"Henery,  you  old  dumbhead,  open  that  door  and  get  a  light 
in  the  parlour.  Land  sakes,  men  is  fools.  Bring  the  child 
right  in  here.  Dear,  dear,  Martin  Claybourne's  little  girl 
hurt  and  you  standing  there  shutting  the  door  in  her  face — 
how  you  expect  to  answer  to  your  Maker  on  the  great  day,  the 
Lord  only  knows.  Where  are  you  hurt,  darling?"  This  to 
Helen  as  I  almost  carried  her  in  and  laid  her  on  the  best  horse- 
hair sofa. 

"I've  only  wrenched  my  knee,  thank  you,"  Helen  smiled. 

"I'll  get  you  a  hot  poultice  just  as  soon  as  I  get  a  fire  in  the 
stove.  We'll  fix  you  all  up  while  the  men  folks  are  telephon- 
ing. I  do  believe  I've  got  a  bottle  of  arnica  up  in  the  store 
closet,"  and  she  shooed  "Henery"  and  me  out  of  the  room.  I 
had  the  luck  to  get  Mr.  Claybourne  on  the  telephone  almost 
immediately,  and  partly  explained  to  him  the  situation,  as  far 
as  the  accident  was  concerned,  while  "Henery"  contributed 
directions  where  to  reach  us:  "Tell  him  it's  Five  Mile  Farm  on 
South  Ridge— Henery  Tyler's  place."  This  done,  "Henery" 
assisted  me  to  put  the  horses  in  the  barn  and  to  make  Leonidas 
fast  to  a  post.  I  was  now  anxious  to  return  to  Helen,  but 
"Henery"  put  obstacles  in  the  way:  "Better  leave  the  women- 
folk alone — pertickly  as  you  ain't  married,  till  Mary  gets  that 
poultice  fixed."  I  brushed  his  objections  aside  and  went  into 
the  parlour.  Mrs.  Tyler  let  out  a  piercing  shriek,  for  poor 
Helen's  bare  and  badly  swollen  knee  was  exposed  to  view. 
Helen  laughed:  "It's  all  right,  Mrs.  Tyler— Ted  and  I— well,  I 
want  him  to  help." 

"Land  sakes!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Tyler,  "I  remember  you  in 
short  dresses — seems  like  it  was  only  yesterday,  walkin'  down 
Myrtle  Boulevard  with  your  dad — and  do  you  mean  to  say  you 
and  him — ?" 

"Yes,"  Helen  said  with  a  dear  look  at  me,  covering  her 
knee  shyly.  I  rushed  to  her  side,  seizing  the  arnica  bottle  to 
disguise  my  confusion. 

"My,  my,  how  time  flies!"  Mrs.  Tyler  continued,  moral- 
izing the  spectacle  from  beneath  her  curl  papers.     "Why,  you 


112  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

ain't  no  more'n  a  child.  How  long  you  been  keepin'  com- 
pany?" 

"Not  very  long,"  Helen  replied,  her  hand  in  mine.  "You 
won't  let  that  poultice  burn,  will  you,  Mrs.  Tyler?" 

"Land  sakes,  no!  Clean  forgot  all  about  it.  To  think  that 
numbskull  Henery  tried  to  shut  the  door  in  your  face,  and  the 
minister  preachin'  about  the  good  Samaritan  only  last  Sun- 
day— "  and  she  mercifully  departed  in  search  of  the  poultice. 
We  could  hear  her  in  the  kitchen  giving  "Henery"  an  additional 
"piece  of  her  mind,"  as  she  would  have  called  it. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  at  first  that  you  knew  these  people, 
sweetheart?"  I  asked.  "It  would  have  saved  you  some  of 
the  pain  of  standing."     I  tried  to  be  reproachful. 

Helen  giggled  happily.  "I  wanted  to  see  if  you  could  man- 
age it,  Ted.  It  was  too  delicious  to  watch  you  lose  your  temper 
on  my  account  because  you  went  at  'Henery'  Tyler  the  wrong 
way.  I'll  never  again  send  you  as  ambassador  to  one  of  our 
farmers.  You  even  offered  him  money!"  and  she  laughed.  I 
felt  there  was  a  defence  to  my  actions,  but  could  think  of  none,. 

"Now,  Ted,  do  you  think  we  ought  to  leave  my  knee  alone 
until  we  see  a  doctor,  or  shall  we  try  the  arnica  and  Mrs* 
Tyler's  poultice?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said.  "I  hate  to  experiment  with  a  knee 
without  expert  advice,  but  I  don't  believe  arnica  will  do  any 
harm,  and  the  poultice  will  be  warming." 

Helen  promptly  displayed  her  knee  again,  and  I  gingerly 
applied  the  arnica.  Mrs.  Tyler  returned  with  a  steaming  poul" 
tice. 

"Now,  dearie,  you  must  have  it  on  just  as  hot  as  you  can 
stand  it,"  she  said,  making  a  great  bustle  of  preparation. 

"Feel  it,  Ted,  and  see  if  I  can  stand  it.  I  don't  want  to  be 
blistered,"  Helen  whispered.  I  seized  the  poultice  as  Mrs. 
Tyler  held  it  in  mid-air  ready  to  apply  it  violently.  I  gave 
an  involuntary  "Ouch!"  it  was  so  hot.  Mrs.  Tyler  refused  to 
yield  without  a  struggle. 

"It's  what  I  always  do  for  Henery's  rheumatics — catches 
him  in  the  back  when  he's  splittin'  wood  for  the  kitchen  stove. 


THE   FIRST   GREAT  ADVENTURE      113 

Once  I  give  him  a  good  hot  poultice  he  never  complains  of  his 
back  again  that  season."  Poor  man,  with  such  a  dire  penalty 
instantly  exacted,  who  would  commit  a  second  offence?  Under 
further  protests  I  got  the  poultice  sufficiently  cool,  and  I  bound 
it  in  place  with  quite  a  workmanlike-looking  bandage.  When 
all  had  been  put  to  rights  as  well  as  it  could  be,  "Henery"  was 
admitted.  He  bore  a  tray  of  biscuits,  a  pitcher  of  milk,  and 
pie.  Both  Helen  and  I  recalled  with  a  laugh  that  we  hadn't 
thought  of  food  since  our  campfire  of  the  early  afternoon. 

"We  can't  eat  in  the  parlour,"  said  the  tactful  Helen,  aware 
of  how  great  an  enormity  this  must  seem  to  a  farmer's  wife. 

"Now,  dearie,  don't  you  fret  yourself.  You  ain't  agoin'  to 
stir,  not  if  I  can  help  it.  I  guess  the  parlour  can  put  up  with 
it  for  once,  if  a  certain  long-faced  fool  will  wipe  his  feet  be- 
fore he  comes  trapesin'  in."  The  latter  part  of  this  remark 
was  directed  at  "Henery"  who  promptly  retreated  and  was 
heard  vigorously  scraping  in  the  passage. 

"I  don't  suppose  you  have  any  spirits — whisky,  for  in- 
stance? I  think  a  drink  would  do  Miss  Claybourne  good  after 
the  shock  she's  had."  I  noticed  Helen's  eyes  dance  as  I  said 
this,  and  she  leaned  forward  eagerly  to  hear  the  reply. 

"Spirits!"  gasped  Mrs.  Tyler.     "You  mean  rum?" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "rum  will  do,  if  it's  all  you  have."  Helen 
made  a  mysterious  and  unaccountable  noise — something  like 
a  choke. 

"Praise  the  Lord,  there  ain't  no  liquor  ever  passed  my  lips — 
let  'lone  my  threshold!"  she  ejaculated.  "Henery"  stuck  his 
head  in  at  the  door:  "I've  got  a  little  somethin'  I  keep  for 
my  backache  up  in  the  hayloft,"  he  ventured  timorously.  "If 
Miss  Helen  needs  a  little  for  medicinal  purposes,  same  as  I  do 
occasionally,  she's  welcome,"  and  he  disappeared  rather 
hastily.  "There  goes  an  example  of  true  courage,"  I  thought, 
"for  it's  ten  to  one  he's  sacrificing  the  future  as  well  as  the 
present."  The  look  on  Mrs.  Tyler's  face  was  awe-inspiring; 
her  lips  closed  in  a  firm,  tight  line  and  no  sound  came  from 
them.  Under  all  the  circumstances,  however,  I  didn't  envy 
"Henery."     Helen  and  I  did  not  dare  exchange  glances;  she 


114  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

hurriedly  nibbled  a  biscuit,  and  I  studied  a  cabinet  full  of 
polished  sea-shells.  Mrs.  Tyler  suddenly  left  the  room  like 
a  shot  from  a  gun.  I  turned  and  went  to  Helen.  She  put  her 
arms  around  my  neck  and  kissed  me. 

"You  dear,  dear  Ted,"  she  laughed.  "I'm  going  to  have 
such  fun  watching  you  put  your  foot  in  it  all  your  life!" 

"But— but — ,"  I  sputtered. 

"Yes,  darling,  I  know.  You  did  it  for  me  and  with  the  best 
intentions.  That  will  always  be  your  reason,  you  delicious 
thing." 

"You  know — that  was  our  first  kiss,"  I  said  with  an  abrupt 
change  of  subject. 

"Oh,  Ted,  and  I  had  to  kiss  you  first  after  all!" 

"I  seem  to  flub  everything,"  I  remarked,  unaccountably 
nettled.  Helen  laughed:  "If  I  didn't  love  you  so,  Ted,  I'd 
shake  you.     There  now!     I've  said  'I  love  you'  first,  too." 

"Henery"  entered  with  a  familiar  looking  bottle,  closely  fol- 
lowed by  Mrs.  Tyler. 

"There  ain't  more'n  a  thimbleful  left,"  he  apologized  hold- 
ing it  to  the  light.  "My  back's  been  kind  of  bad  during  the 
damp  spell." 

"Henery  Tyler,  it  ain't  rained  a  mite  for  six  weeks,"  Mrs. 
Tyler  snapped.  I  took  the  bottle  from  "Henery"  and  smelt  the 
contents;  it  was  a  cheap  whisky. 

"Will  you  take  a  little,  Helen?"  I  asked.  "Just  to  pull 
you  together." 

"I  don't  think  I  need  it,  Ted,  unless  you  tell  me  to  take  it." 
I  started  to  hand  it  back  to  "Henery,"  but  Mrs.  Tyler  was  too 
quick  for  me.  She  snatched  the  bottle:  "I'll  just  lock  this 
away  in  the  medicine  closet,  and  when  Henery's  back  troubles 
him  again,  he  can  have  it  along  with  one  of  my  hot  poultices." 

"Henery"  looked  truly  woeful ;  it  was  an  awful  price  to  ask  a 
man  to  pay  for  a  drink.  As  Helen  finished  the  biscuit  and 
milk  we  heard  a  carriage  outside,  and  Mr.  Claybourne  came 
rushing  in.  He  was  greatly  relieved  at  seeing  Helen  about  to 
eat  a  large  slice  of  apple  pie  instead  of  lying  crippled,  as  he 
evidently  expected. 


THE   FIRST   GREAT  ADVENTURE      115 

"Well,  Ted,  what  have  you  been  doing  to  my  little  girl?" 
he  asked,  kissing  Helen  and  shaking  hands  with  me  all  in  one 
move. 

"It  wasn't  all  Ted's  fault,"  Helen  smiled,  her  eyes  shining. 
But  Mr.  Claybourne  was  too  relieved  and  excited  to  notice 
anything. 

"I'll  arrange  the  cushions  in  the  carriage,  and  you  and  I 
will  carry  her  out,  Ted,"  he  shouted  and  dashed  out  again. 
Helen  beckoned  me  to  her. 

"Don't  say  anything  tonight,  dear,"  she  whispered.  "I'm 
too  tired  tc  face  mother.  Come  to  Sunday  dinner  tomorrow," 
and  she  hugged  my  hand  against  her  shoulder.  "Let  it  be 
another  of  our  secrets  until  then."  I  bent  over  her  and 
kissed  her  hair.     The  Tylers  were  discreetly  busy. 

"Ted,  dear?" 

"Yes?" 

"I'm  so  glad  I  hurt  my  knee!" 

Mr.  Claybourne  appeared  at  the  door. 

"The  carriage  is  ready,  Ted.  You'll  have  to  take  the 
horses  in  by  yourself.  Help  me  to  carry  the  patient.  I 
couldn't  get  Dr.  Sinclair,  but  he'll  be  waiting  for  us  at  the 
house  when  we  get  back."  We  gathered  Helen  up  between  us 
and  carried  her  out. 

"You'll  look  after  Leonidas  too,  won't  you,  Ted?"  she  said. 
"My  knee  will  be  enough  for  mother  for  one  day." 

The  carriage  drove  away  with  Mr.  Claybourne  still  shout- 
ing his  thanks  at  the  Tylers,  with  an  "If  I  can  do  anything  for 
you,  Henry,  look  in  at  my  office  Monday."  As  "Henery"  and 
I  made  our  way  to  the  barn  to  get  Leonidas  and  the  horses  I 
said:  "Mr.  Tyler,  if  you  will  also  stop  at  my  office  on  Monday, 
you'll  find  a  package  of  excellent  medicine  for  rheumatism." 


Chapter  Eight 
i   play  a   part   in   a  melodrama 

REGARDLESS  of  all  excitement  of  the  day  before,  and  of 
the  change  that  had  come  into  my  life,  I  slept  late  Sun- 
day morning.  The  reason  was  that,  because  of  night 
duty  at  the  factory,  it  was  the  first  sleep  for  twenty-four  hours. 
All  the  thinking  and  plans  I  had  intended  to  do  and  make 
while  in  bed  faded  into  a  dreamless  unconsciousness.  I 
awoke  without  having  decided  on  the  best  approach  to  Helen's 
family.  Business  was  not  yet  in  such  shape  that  I  could  offer 
a  strong  financial  argument  to  so  keen  a  business  man  as  Mr. 
Claybourne,  nor  had  I  any  idea  what  my  own  family  would 
think  of  me.  Letters  were  not  an  ideal  means  of  communica- 
tion. Could  I  express  in  black  and  white  how  adorable  Helen 
was — she  who  was  all  intangible  charm  and  delight?  These 
and  many  other  disturbing  thoughts  came  to  me  as  I  shaved. 
It  was  curious  that  every  fresh  step  in  life  opened  up  such  vistas 
of  unforeseen  problems !  Nothing  was  as  one  had  imagined  it 
would  be. 

On  my  way  out  Myrtle  Boulevard  I  passed  a  florist's — the 
florist  shops  kept  open  until  church  time  in  Deep  Harbor — 
and  bought  Helen  a  bunch  of  Parma  violets;  they  were  her 
favourites,  and  to  me  violets  symbolized  her.  She  was  sitting 
up,  her  foot  on  a  rest  and  "Mother"  hovering  about,  when  I 
arrived.  Helen  reported  the  doctor's  opinion  as  favourable — 
a  bad  wrench,  but  requiring  merely  rest  and  quiet.  "Mother" 
was  more  pessimistic ;  with  a  knee  one  never  knew  what  would 
happen;  a  friend  of  hers  had  a  daughter  no  older  than  Helen 
who  had  been  made  lame  for  life  by  less;  still,  it  was  what  she 
had  always  expected,  only  no  one  ever  listened  to  her  ad- 
vice, least  of  all  Helen;  had  she  not  warned  her  again  and 

116 


I   PLAY  A  PART  IN   MELODRAMA       117 

again  that  horseback  riding  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and  night 
was  dangerous,  to  say  nothing  of  being  highly  improper? 
Helen  buried  her  nose  in  the  violets  and  said  nothing;  I,  too, 
had  learned  a  measure  of  discretion  where  "mother"  was  con- 
cerned, and  sat  on  the  edge  of  my  chair  throughout  the  tirade. 
Mr.  Claybourne  rescued  us. 

"Now,  mother,"  he  said  in  his  brisk  way,  "these  kids  want 
to  talk  it  all  over  by  themselves.  You  come  into  the  library 
with  me  and  read  the  scandal  in  the  Sunday  supplement.  The 
best  regulated  horses  will  fall  down  sometimes;  thank  Heaven 
your  daughter  didn't  break  any  bones,  and  be  happy."  He 
dragged  her  protesting  away.  Helen  and  I  looked  at  one 
another,  uncertain  where  to  begin. 

"It  was  like  you,  Ted,  to  bring  me  the  violets,  but  you 
mustn't  waste  money  on  me  any  more.  We'll  need  it  all,"  she 
smiled — womanlike,  recovering  first.  "Have  we  any  money, 
Ted?" 

I  was  hardly  prepared  for  so  direct  a  poser;  yet  even 
Arthur's  knights  sometimes  had  difficulties  financing  their 
quests.     It  was  distinctly  her  right  to  know  the  truth. 

"My  present  salary  isn't  enough,"  I  admitted,  "but  by  next 
summer,  if  the  business  is  well  on  its  feet,  we  can  go  to  Eng- 
land. I  have  an  interest  in  the  factory  given  me  by  my  father. 
It's  up  to  Knowlton  to  make  that  good." 

"England!"  she  dreamed.  "I'll  love  it,  Ted!  It'll  be 
hard  to  leave  my  father,  though.     Dear  old  dad  adores  me." 

"I'm  not  surprised,"  I  said,  taking  her  slender  white  hand 
to  my  lips. 

"You  mustn't  tease,  Ted.  I'm  serious  today.  Why  didn't 
you  bring  me  Leonidas?"  It  was,  of  course,  useless  to  object 
to  Helen's  categories  of  "serious  things." 

"I  thought  best  to  try  'mother'  with  one  thing  at  a  time. 
Leonidas  is  chewing  a  slipper  under  my  study  table.  In  the 
bathroom  he  will  find  a  bowl  of  bread  and  milk  at  his  con- 
venience." 

Helen  laughed:  "I  hope  you'll  take  as  good  care  of  me, 
Ted."     The  maid   announced   dinner;    Mr.   Claybourne,  with 


118  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

my  assistance,  carried  Helen  to  the  dining  room,  and  we  made 
great  to-do  of  propping  her  up  with  cushions.  Helen  sent  me 
back  to  the  living  room  for  her  violets;  they  had  to  be  at  a 
certain  spot  on  the  table  in  front  of  her.  I  observed  Mr. 
Claybourne  pause  for  a  second  in  the  midst  of  his  soup  to 
watch  Helen  and  her  flowers;  she  kissed  them  when  I  put  the 
bunch  in  front  of  her,  which  caused  Mr.  Claybourne  to  resume 
eating  with  some  show  of  violence.  "Mother"  did  not  notice 
this  by-play;  she  was  scolding  the  maid  because  the  soup  was 
too  hot  and  hadn't  enough  salt,  and  there  was  a  draft  some- 
where that  was  bringing  in  all  the  kitchen  smell's,  though  for 
the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  detect  any.  The  maid  having  been 
properly  flustered  and  needlessly  irritated,  "Mother"  turned 
with  a  sigh  toward  Helen. 

"Ludwig  hasn't  sent  you  any  flowers  for  a  long  time;  I 
used  to  love  those  American  beauties — where  did  he  get  them, 
Rosenstein's,  wasn't  it?" 

I  looked  slyly  at  Helen,  who  blushed  charmingly  and  be- 
came much  interested  in  her  plate.  Mr.  Claybourne  gave  a 
loud  laugh. 

"Mother,  I  think  you  scored  a  bull's  eye  that  time!"  be 
roared,  in  great  enjoyment  of  his  own  joke. 

"What  have  I  said  now?"  "Mother"  asked  in  her  plaintive 
way,  looking  from  one  to  another  of  us.  "I  should  think  I 
might  be  allowed  to  make  a  remark  once  in  a  while.  I  don't 
expect  any  one  to  talk  to  me  or  pay  any  attention  to  me,  but  I 
do  claim  the  privilege  of  an  occasional  word  in  my  own 
house." 

Helen's  low  "Mother  dear"  was  cut  short  by  hearty  Mr. 
Claybourne. 

"Now,  Lucy,  don't  go  up  in  the  air.  No  one  was  laughing 
at  you;  on  the  contrary,  Ted's  face  was  solemn  as  a  judge's" — 
and  he  winked  elaborately  at  me.  By  way  of  retort  Mrs.  Clay- 
bourne burst  into  tears  and  left  the  table.  Mr.  Claybourne, 
with  a  distinctly  muttered  "Damn"  followed  her  at  a  decent 
interval. 

"I'm  sorry,  Ted,"  said  Helen,  in  defiance  of  the  maid,  put- 


I   PLAY   A   PART   IN   MELODRAMA        119 

ting  her  hand  on  mine.  "Never  let  me  become  so  spoiled,  will 
you,  dear?" 

"As  if  you  could!"  I  said,  leaning  toward  her. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"  Helen  continued,  "poor  mother  really 
believes  that  she  is  a  much  neglected  and  abused  woman, 
whereas  dad  does  everything  on  earth  to  please  and  humour 
her.  If  only  he  would  try  firmness  once!  And  she  would  be 
so  much  happier,  too,  instead  of  imagining  herself  the  victim 
of  'nerves,'  as  she  calls  it." 

"I'm  not  sure  dispositions  are  curable." 

Mr.  Claybourne  returned:  "Go  on  with  dinner,  children; 
mother  will  be  down  in  a  few  minutes.  I'm  afraid  she  has  a 
sick  headache;  the  shock  of  last  night,"  he  explained. 

"Dear  dad,"  Helen  smiled. 

"What  are  you  dear  dadding  me  for?"  her  father  inquired, 
as  he  sharpened  the  carving  knife. 

"I  shan't  tell  you,  if  you  can't  guess." 

"Not  another  hat — or  more  pocket  money?"  he  said 
seriously. 

"No,  father,  of  course  not!" 

He  shook  his  head  and  concentrated  on  carving  a  pair  of 
ducks.  In  due  time  "Mother"  returned,  red-eyed  and  resigned. 
She  sat  at  table  and  refused  all  food,  although  both  Mr.  Clay- 
bourne  and  I  danced  about  the  room  urging  this  and  that  upon 
her. 

"I  know  what  you  need  to  cheer  you  up,  old  girl,"  shouted 
Mr.  Claybourne  with  hilarity  that  began  to  sound  a  little 
forced,  "  a  bottle  of  champagne"! 

Mother  protested  that  her  head  felt  bad  enough  now ;  it  was 
absurd  extravagance  and  set  a  bad  example  in  the  kitchen,  to 
say  nothing  of  champagne  on  Sunday  being  a  sacrilege:  her 
husband  pooh-poohed  it  all,  and  went  down  cellar  after  a  bot- 
tle. 

"Here,  Ted !  you  open  it,"  handing  me  a  flagon  of  the  widow 
Clicquot's  special  brew  upon  his  re-entry.  "I'll  get  the 
glasses." 

"We  have  a  waitress,  Martin,"  was  "Mother's"  final  protest. 


120  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

With  much  coaxing,  Mrs.  Claybourne  was  induced  to  sip  a 
little.  Afterwards  I  noticed  that  she  sipped  it  quite  often  when 
the  rest  of  us  were  talking,  until  she  gradually  returned  to  an 
almost  cheerful  frame  of  mind.  Mr.  Claybourne's  anecdotes 
and  humorous  stories  increased  in  numbers;  he  sandwiched 
many  toasts  in  between  them:  to  "mother";  to  Helen;  to 
"happy  days";  to  the  "young  people";  to  "rum — down  with 
it,"  and  like  persiflage  of  an  obvious  nature.  At  each  toast 
"mother"  raised  a  feeble  objection,  less  and  less  prolonged  as 
time  went  on.  We  had  another  bottle,  for  Mr.  Claybourne  said 
"A  quart  among  four  is  only  a  teaser — an  aggravation." 
Once  Helen  risked  taking  my  hand:  "Be  careful,  Ted,  won't 
you?"  she  whispered.  I  nodded.  Mr.  Claybourne  saw  us. 
"Ted  is  old  enough  to  take  care  of  himself,  Helen,"  he  ad- 
monished, winking  at  me.  When  the  second  bottle  was  emp- 
tied, Mr.  Claybourne  brought  forth  a  humidor  filled  with 
large,  black  Havanas. 

"Now,  mother,  we'll  carry  Helen  into  the  living  room,  and 
Ted  and  I  are  going  to  sit  here  and  talk  business  over  out 
cigars."  I  started,  and  Helen's  free  foot  lightly  touched  mine 
under  the  table.  Mr.  Claybourne  was  delighted  with  the  ef- 
fect of  his  dramatic  announcement.  His  eyes  twinkled  as  he 
watched  us. 

"I  guess  you  thought  the  old  man  was  asleep,"  he  chuckled, 
as  we  picked  Helen  up.     "I  wasn't  born  yesterday." 

"Can  I  stay,  dad?"  Helen  asked. 

"No,  we'll  attend  to  you  later,  young  lady,"  and  with  this 
cryptic  threat  Helen  was  carried  off.  Of  course  things  were 
not  working  out  as  I  had  planned,  but  I  was  beginning  to  get 
used  to  Fate's  perversity. 

"Light  up,  Ted,"  commanded  Mr.  Claybourne  upon  our 
return  to  the  dining  room.  I  obeyed;  my  hand  was  not  so 
steady  as  I  should  have  wished. 

"Old  man  Tyler  let  slip  something  last  night  that  has  set 
me  thinking,  Ted,"  he  continued,  locking  his  hands  behind  his 
head  and  studying  my  face  attentively.  "So  that  was  how  the 
milk  was  spilt,"  I  thought.     "Of  course,  I  must  say  a  blind 


I   PLAY  A   PART   IN   MELODRAMA       121 

man  could  have  told  which  way  the  wind  blew,"  he  added,  with 
a  reckless  mixture  of  proverbs.  There  was  a  pause,  during 
which  I  was  trying  to  compose  a  suitable  speech. 

"Well,  Ted,  so  you  two  kids  imagine  you're  in  love  with 
each  other?" 

"We  are,"  I  said  with  a  decision  that  surprised  me.  Again 
this  wasn't  the  speech  I  had  been  composing. 

"Suppose  for  the  sake  of  argument  we  concede  this  point 
for  the  moment:  was  it  playing  square  not  to  tell  me?"  and 
Mr.  Claybourne  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  rings  toward  the  ceiling. 

"We  only  found  it  out  last  night,"  I  answered  eagerly 
desirous  to  put  myself  in  the  right.  "I  came  here  today  to  tell 
you." 

He  looked  sharply  at  me,  chewing  his  cigar.  I  did  not 
flinch  this  time. 

"Some  one  was  pretty  slow,"  he  said,  breaking  into  a  laugh. 
"I  found  it  out  two  weeks  ago."  I  moistened  my  lips  and 
tried  a  smile  on  my  own  account. 

"To  come  down  to  brass  tacks,  Ted,  can  you  support  a 
wife?" 

"No,  sir — at  least,  not  yet." 

"Then  what  right  have  you  to  go  putting  ideas  in  my  little 
girl's  head?" 

"Because,  sir,  I  love  her,  and  there  is  good  reason  to  believe 
that  I  shall  be  able  to  support  her  by  next  summer." 

"I  know  more  about  your  business,  through  my  connection 
with  the  bank,  than  you  do  yourself,"  he  commented.  "May- 
be what  you  say  will  be  all  right,  and  maybe  it  won't.  Busi- 
ness is  a  funny  game,  Ted;  with  all  your  eggs  in  one  basket  you 
can't  count  your  chickens  before  they're  hatched."  Proverbs 
always  are  annoying,  if  quoted  against  me. 

"Well,"  I  retorted,  "my  prospects  are  as  good  as  the  average 
young  man's  at  my  age,  if  not  better."  I  was  surprised  at 
my  own  self-assurance. 

"All  right — we'll  concede  that,  too,"  he  said  with  a  wave  of 
his  cigar.  "Now,  Ted,  you  know  Helen's  very  young — only 
just  out  of  school.     Her  tastes  may  change — probably  will. 


122  I   WALKED    IN   ARDEN 

She  thinks  she  loves  you,  but  she's  only  in  love  with  love. 
Neither  you  nor  she  knows  what  love  is." 

"We  have  to  take  our  chances  with  it,  just  as  all  young  peo- 
ple do.  By  the  time  we  learn  what  love  is  we  can  preach  it 
to  our  grandchildren."  It  seemed,  when  I  spoke,  as  if  I  were 
listening  to  a  third  person.  I  really  wanted  to  be  conciliatory, 
but  the  words  came  to  suit  themselves. 

"You  are  sentencing  yourselves  to  each  other  for  life;  it's  a 
long  penalty  to  pay  if  you  make  a  mistake.  As  for  love, 
that  doesn't  help  much — not  the  kind  of  thing  you  imagine  it 
to  be,  doesn't.  Marriage  means  a  lot  of  plain,  everyday  facts 
— a  few  pleasant,  more  unpleasant.  I  married  for  love,"  he 
concluded  reflectively. 

"Yes — and  it  brought  you  Helen."  This  time  I  knew  I 
had  scored.  He  laid  his  cigar  down  and  looked  out  the  win- 
dow. Then  he  turned  to  me:  "Ted,  I'll  put  my  cards  on  the 
table;  if  Helen  wants  you  she  shall  have  you.  I've  never 
gone  against  her  will  in  anything  important,  and  I  don't  in- 
tend to.  I  wish  she  was  older,  but  there's  no  use  wishing 
that  now."  I  half  rose  to  my  feet  in  sheer  joy.  "Sit  down, 
Ted;  I'm  not  through.  I  make  two  conditions:  first,  I  don't 
want  you  to  say  anything  about  this  to  any  one  but  Helen's 
mother  until  Christmas.  Let's  see  how  you  get  on  when  you 
get  to  know  each  other  better.  Next,  if  Helen  takes  you,  she 
must  take  you  as  you  are.  Because  I  have  been  fairly  success- 
ful in  business  won't  count  at  all.  I'll  not  give  her  a  cent  be- 
fore I  go.  Helen  has  to  make  her  own  choice  and  put  up  with 
it,  whether  it  is  riches  or  proverty." 

"As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  agree  to  both  conditions." 

"You  would,"  he  assented  drily.  "Let's  hear  what  Helen 
has  to  say  about  it." 

We  went  into  the  next  room,  to  find  Helen  hugging  her  vio- 
lets to  her  bosom.  "Mother"  had  gone  upstairs  for  her  after- 
noon rest.     I  boldly  walked  over  to  Helen  and  kissed  her. 

"Ted,  I  wish  you'd  stop  all  that  until  Christmas,"  Mr.  Clay- 
bourne  said  grimly.  We  sat  down,  but  Helen  left  her  hand  in 
mine. 


I   PLAY  A   PART   IN   MELODRAMA        123 

"Well,  little  girl,  Ted  tells  me  you  love  him." 

"Yes,  dad  dear."  The  look  on  Helen's  face  as  she  said  this 
brought  the  tears  to  my  eyes,  and  even  Mr.  Claybourne,  with 
all  his  assumption  of  practicality,  was  none  too  comfortable. 

He  got  up  and  paced  the  floor  and  gazed  out  at  Myrtle 
Boulevard;  then  he  came  back  to  us. 

"You've  thought  it  all  over — and  made  up  your  mind?" 
He  stooped  over  her,  turned  her  face  up  to  his,  and  gently 
pushed  the  hair  back  on  her  forehead.  Helen's  grey  eyes 
looked  fearlessly  into  his. 

"Yes,  dad,  I'm  sure." 

"What  if  I  say  'no'?" 

"You  won't,  dad — not  when  you  know  Ted.  But  if  you  do 
— why,  dad,  you  believe  I  love  you,;  don't  you? — even  if  you 
said  'no'  I  should  love  Ted  just  the  same." 

Mr.  Claybourne  turned  away  and  twisted  one  end  of  his 
moustache.  There  were  no  tears  in  Helen's  eyes,  only  a  quiet 
conviction  in  her  voice  which  indicated  a  strength  of  charac- 
ter much  like  her  father's.     I  knew  that  he  too  recognized  it. 

"I  won't  give  you  a  penny,  Helen ;  you've  got  to  take  him  as 
he  is,  fight  your  own  fight,  and  make  your  own  way.  I  did  it, 
and  your  grandfather  did  it;  you'll  have  to  do  it,  too." 

"Then  I  shall  do  it,"  she  answered,  "as  you  did.  I'm  your 
daughter,  and  I'm  not  afraid — whatever  the  future  brings,  as 
long  as  I  have  Teddy — and  he  has  me."  She  said  it  simply, 
unemotionally,  like  some  one  stating  a  fact. 

"There's  not  much  more  to  discuss,  is  there,  Ted?"  and  he 
took  my  hand  in  a  grip  thaj  hurt.  "But  mind  you,"  he  ex- 
claimed, "you'll  regard  yourselves  as  both  on  probation.  No 
announcement  can  be  made  before  Christmas — and  not  then 
unless  I  say  the  word." 

"If  you  don't  say  the  word  then,  we'll  simply  run  away," 
Helen  came  back  at  him  with  her  dangerous  calm.  Then  she 
smiled  again:  "Dear  old  dad." 

He  looked  at  me:  "I  warn  you,  Ted!  You  see  what  you  are 
letting  yourself  in  for.  As  far  as  I  can  judge,  you  haven't 
been  consulted  any  more  than  I  have." 


124  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"Father!"  Helen  interrupted. 

"I  hope  you  are  prepared  never  to  have  your  own  way  again, 
Edward,  from  this  time  forth." 

'"You  can't  frighten  Ted  that  way,"  laughed  Helen;  "we 
both  want  the  same  things." 

Mr.  Ciaybourne  snorted:  "You  hear  that,  Ted?" 

I  took  Helen's  hand,  and  she  held  it  tight  against  her  vio- 
lets, crushing  them  and  staining  my  palm  with  their  fragrant 
juice.     I  didn't  dare  trust  myself  to  speak. 

"And  now  that  it  is  all  settled,  let's  break  it  to  mother," 
Mr.  Ciaybourne  exploded  with  a  grim  attempt  at  his  usual 
humour.  He  left  the  room  without  giving  us  a  chance  to 
object.  I  looked  at  Helen's  face,  more  beautiful  now  than  I 
had  ever  dreamed  a  woman's  could  be.  A  large  tear  rolled 
down  her  cheek,  and  I  fell  on  my  knees  beside  her,  burying  my 
face  in  her  lap.     She  stroked  my  head. 

"I'm  not  crying^  Ted  dear — I'm  not  the  crying  kind.  I  am 
just  so  happy  I  guess  a — a  little  of  it — overflowed."  I  kissed 
her  wet  cheek,  and  we  sat  in  silence,  waiting.  Sounds  of  sob- 
bing came  from  the  stairs,  and  of  patient,  consolatory  remarks. 
Helen  smiled:  "Poor  mother — it  sounds  horrid  to  say  it,  but 
she  always  acts  her  part  perfectly." 

"Mother"  entered,  with  smelling  salts  and  dainty  lace  hand- 
kerchief, collapsed  on  her  husband's  shoulder,  striving  won- 
derfully for  hysterics. 

"Ted,"  said  Mr.  Ciaybourne,  leading  his  wife  to  an  easy 
chair,  "I  don't  believe  you  are  a  very  popular  young  man  with 
part  of  the  family — Lucy,  I  want  you  to  shake  hands  with  your 
future  son-in-law." 

I  timidly  advanced,  an  action  which  brought  about  a  relapse. 
When  she  was  a  girl,  daughters  had  the  common  decency  to 
confide  in  their  mothers;  they  didn't  announce  engagements 
to  practically  total  strangers;  they  didn't  get  half -killed  riding 
horseback  with  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry;  they  showed  some  con- 
sideration— some  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things;  they  went  re- 
gularly to  Church  and  were  obedient.  At  this  point  Mr.  Clay- 
bourne  admitted  a  damaging  piece  of  evidence. 


I   PLAY   A   PART   IN   MELODRAMA        125 

"We  ran  away  to  be  married,  Lucy,  when  you  were  seven- 
teen and  we  had  just  one  hundred  and  twenty-seven  dollars 
between  us.  What's  more,  I've  never  regretted  it,"  he  finished, 
with  unexpected  tenderness  in  his  voice. 

"Mother!"  Helen  pleaded,  and  she  stretched  out  her  arms. 
Mrs.  Claybourne  staggered  across  the  room  and  melodramatic- 
ally hurled  herself  upon  her  daughter.  At  the  end  of  another 
outpouring  of  sobs  and  tears,  she  consented  reluctantly  to 
shake  hands,  and  submitted  to  a  formal  kiss  from  me,  at 
Helen's  command.  I  am  afraid  I  did  not  linger  very  long 
over  it.  With  a  few  more  remarks  about  no  one  having  any 
regard  for  her  wishes,  or  taking  into  consideration  her  ner- 
vous state,  she  began  to  cheer  up  remarkably. 

Upon  noting  these  favorable  symptoms,  Mr.  Claybourne  an- 
nounced that  he  was  off  for  the  club,  at  the  same  time  inviting 
me  to  stay  and  "amuse  Helen"  until  after  supper. 

"I  hope,  Martin,  you  are  not  going  to  play  cards  on  Sunday 
— at  the  least,  not  for  money."  Mr.  Claybourne  showed  long 
practice  in  the  skill  with  which  he  evaded  a  direct  reply,  and 
left  hurriedly. 

"I  don't  know  what  we  shall  do,  Helen,  when  we  announce 
your  engagement.     Neither  of  us  have  any  clothes  fit  to  wear." 

I  was  staggered  by  this  transition  to  the  practical,  but  at 
least  the  implication  was  that  the  period  of  resistance  was 
over. 

"We  can  go  to  New  York  before  Christmas,"  Helen  said. 

"Your  father  is  always  complaining  I  spend  too  much 
money,"  mother  sighed,  "although  he  seems  to  forget,  Ed- 
ward, that  I  have  a  grown-up  daughter  to  manage.  Of  course, 
now  I  won't  be  able  to  go  to  Palm  Beach  for  the  winter,  as  I 
had  planned,  and  this  climate  is  simply  killing  my  nerves. 
But  I  don't  suppose  that  ever  entered  either  of  your  heads." 

Helen's  eyes  danced  as  we  stole  a  look  at  one  another,  but 
Mrs.  Claybourne  continued,  unconscious  of  anything  but  her- 
self: "There  isn't  a  single  dressmaker  in  this  city  who  can  turn 
out  a  decent  evening  dress,  and  all  Helen's  clothes  will  have  to 
be  made  to  order — she  can't  wear  jeune  fiUe  things  any  more. 


126  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

Oh,  dear,  and  I  don't  suppose  I'll  have  any  help  planning  your 
trousseau — you  and  Edward  will  be  off  riding  horseback  day 
and  night — it  will  all  be  left  for  me  to  settle,  and  I  declare  I 
haven't  the  health  or  the  strength." 

There  was  no  use  trying  to  assure  her  that  we  probably 
should  take  some  interest  in  the  course  of  subsequent  events. 
Our  engagement  settled  itself  down  as  a  conspiracy  to  prevent 
her  from  going  to  Palm  Beach;  moreover,  it  was  a  deliberately 
chosen  scheme  to  add  to  her  cares  and  responsibilities  at  a 
time  when  her  nerves  were  on  the  edge  of  a  general  break- 
down. By  some  mysterious  tactful  process  Helen  persuaded 
her  mother  to  take  another  rest,  and  we  were  left  alone. 

I  drew  my  chair  up  beside  her.  "Poor  Ted,"  she  smiled; 
"you've  had  quite  a  trying  day." 

"Did  I  put  my  foot  in  it  anywhere?"  I  asked. 

She  laughed:  "Not  once,  unless  you  consider  an  engagement 
to  me,  now  you  know  the  family,  putting  your  foot  in  it." 

"Why  did  Ludwig  von  Oberhausen  send  you  flowers?" 

"Ah,  I  knew  you'd  ask  that  at  the  first  opportunity.  Why 
do  you  suppose  he  did?"  she  teased. 

"Because  you  are  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  world." 

"Stuff,  Ted,  that  wasn't  the  reason;  besides,  only  you  could 
believe  that.  It  was  because  he  thought  I  had  money;  I  was 
number  three  on  his  list.  Oh,  he  was  methodical  about  it,  Ted, 
beginning  with  a  formal  call  on  mother  on  her  day  at  home. 
Every  Saturday  night  at  six  a  dozen  American  beauties  arrived, 
until  you  galloped  over  the  horizon  that  day  on  Satan." 

This  was  comforting.     "Did  you  care  for  him?" 

"No,  you  jealous  pig." 

"Helen,"  I  said,  with  masculine  solemnity  and  inappropri- 
ateness,  "is  this  really  the  first  time — for  you?" 

Afterwards  I  was  thankful  she  had  a  sense  of  humour;  in  a 
normal  frame  of  mind  I  should  not  have  propounded  such  a 
banal  absurdity.  It  was  excess  of  good  fortune  which  de- 
stroyed my  sense  of  proportion.  She  flushed  slightly  for  a 
moment,  more  because  it  was  a  shock  to  find  me  so  stupid 
than  because  the  question  hurt  her. 


I   PLAY   A   PART   IN   MELODRAMA       127 

"Ted,  it  isn't  like  us,"  she  said  gently,  using  the  phrase  that 
so  many  times,  in  the  days  to  come,  kept  me  steady  on  my  feet 
and  my  face  in  the  clouds — "it  isn't  like  us  to — to  doubt  each 
other  even  in  tiny  things.  Of  course,  I've  had  boy  friends  who 
have  sat  on  the  beach  with  me  and  watched  the  moon  rise  or 
begged  me  for  an  extra  allowance  of  dances."  She  smiled, 
and  there  was  a  pause,  during  which  I  felt  humble  and  guilty. 
The  back  of  my  neck  was  uncomfortably  hot.  "I've  met  only 
one  Ted — my  Sir  Edward  of  Overseas,"  and  she  laid  her  hand 
on  mine.     There  followed  a  long  silence. 

"Teddy  dear,"  she  said  at  last.  "Tell  me  more  about  Eng- 
land." 

Until  after  the  room  grew  dark  I  told  her  all  I  could — of 
my  family;  of  country  life  in  Hertfordshire,  with  its  packs  of 
hounds,  straggly  villages,  and  grey  parish  churches  on  the 
summits  of  windy  hills;  of  London,  with  its  mystery  and 
romance  and  its  age-old  stories.  It  sounds  as  if  I  lectured 
poor  Helen  like  a  school  teacher.  In  reality  it  was  a  true 
lover's  conversation — she  questioning  and  curious  about  her 
home-to-be,  I  trying  to  make  her  see  it  through  my  eyes.  I 
was  young  and  sentimental;  I  had  not  then  learned  that  pa- 
triotism and  love  of  home  are  suburban  and  unintellectual 
emotions. 

Suddenly  I  cried  out:  "Good  Heavens,  dearest,  it's  half  past 
five,  and  I  forgot  I  have  to  go  on  duty  at  six!  I  can't  stay  to 
supper — I  must  run  now." 

"Won't  they  let  you  off  this  once,  if  you  telephone?" 

I  hesitated,  for  the  temptation  was  strong,  but  it  wouldn't  be 
fair  to  Knowlton.  It  would  mean  a  twenty-four  hour  stretch 
for  him  if  I  stayed  away,  I  explained. 

"Of  course  you  must  go,  Ted.  Let's  try  not  to  be  selfish  in 
our  happiness — ever."  I  kissed  her  and  left  with  these  words 
repeating  themselves  over  and  over  in  my  ears. 

When  I  reached  the  factory  I  found  Knowlton  pacing  the 
floor. 

"I've  been  wanting  to  get  you  all  day,  Ted.     I  didn't  like 


123  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

to  call  you  up  at  the  Claybournes',  as  I  knew  you'd  be  here  at 
six.     There's  the  devil  to  pay." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Prospero's  companion,  the  circus  woman,  has  gone.  All 
your  chemistry  notes  of  our  experiments  have  disappeared  too. 
Prospero  is  in  his  room  raving  drunk.  He  swears  you  have 
tricked  him  and  stolen  the  secret  of  his  great  discovery.  He 
threatens  law,  murder,  anything  he  can  think  of." 

"That  part  is  all  right,"  I  said.     "The  notes  are  serious." 

"Can  you  reconstruct  them?" 

"Not  all,"  I  answered  "without  repeating  part  of  the  ex- 
periments." 

"How  long  will  that  take?" 

"A  minimum  of  six  weeks." 

"I  was  a  triple  damn  fool,  Ted,  not  to  keep  a  copy  of  your 
work  in  the  office  safe.  There's  the  Texas  contract  which  we 
must  begin  work  on  tomorrow.     Do  you  know  the  formula?" 

"No,  that  was  Prospero's  discovery — but  I  know  how  he  went 
at  it." 

"Go  to  the  laboratory,  Ted,  and  stick  at  it  as  long  as  you  can, 
night  and  day.  If  you  can  work  out  that  formula,  you  can 
have  two  weeks  at  Christmas.  If  you  can't,  we  are  done  for. 
The  bank  is  carrying  us  now  on  the  strength  of  our  Texas  con- 
tract— if  we  can't  make  good  on  it,  you  and  I  have  finished 
with  Deep  Harbor.  Can  I  telephone  for  a  chemist  to  help 
you?" 

"Yes — get  me  a  young,  trained  research  man — and  see  if 
the  Owen  people  will  lend  us  one  of  their  best  laboratory  men. 
Of  course,  you'll  have  to  pay  like  the  deuce — " 

"That  doesn't  matter — you'll  get  your  man.     And,  Ted?" 

"Yes?" 

"I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  tell  Miss  Claybourne  about  this — 
her  father  is  a  director  in  the  bank — " 

"Miss  Claybourne  does  not  repeat — "  I  began. 

"Nevertheless — why  worry  her  with  your  troubles,  Ted, 
until  necessary?" 

"Then  you  know  about — us?"  I  asked  naively. 


I   PLAY  A   PART   IN   MELODRAMA        129 

"I'm  not  a  damned  fool  in  everything,  Ted." 

"All  right — I  shan't  tell  her  unless  I  have  to." 

With  this  I  went  into  the  laboratory.  During  my  absence, 
Prospero  or  his  companion,  or  both  together,  had  searched  the 
place  from  top  to  bottom.  Every  bottle  with  a  paper  label 
had  been  carefully  washed  and  the  labels  removed.  Galva- 
nometers, ammeters,  voltmeters,  all  our  delicate  instruments, 
including  the  chemical  balances',  had  been  rendered  inaccu- 
rate, hence  useless  until  re-calibrated.  They  had  worked  with 
skill,  for  nothing  had  been  taken.  My  notes  had  been  burned 
one  by  one  in  a  Bunsen  flame,  and  the  ashes  powdered.  A 
careful  inventory  revealed  a  situation  difficult  to  explain  to  a 
court  of  law  and  still  more  difficult  to  prove.  It  was  true  the 
documents  weren't  there  and  their  ashes  were.  It  was  another 
matter  to  establish  these  facts  on  a  witness  stand. 

I  sent  for  Joe,  the  day  watchman,  who  had  been  detained  by 
Knowlton  until  my  examination  of  the  laboratory  was  com- 
plete. 

"Who  used  the  laboratory  today,  Joe?"  I  asked  the  burly 
Pole  who  looked  after  the  plant  on  Sundays. 

"Mr.  Fougeer — an'  Mrs.  Fougeer — they  worked  here  all  day 
— mos'  important  job,  he  tells  me — I  let  'em  in  building — he 
have  key  to  this  room." 

"What  time  did  they  leave?" 

"  'Bout  tree  'clock.  I  fin'  door  unlock'  near  six — Mr.  Fou- 
geer, he  forgot  lock  him — I  lock  door — everything  he  look  0. 
K.  inside." 

"All  right,  Joe.  You  did  your  duty,"  Knowlton  said,  dis- 
missing him.  Naturally  we  had  given  orders  that  Prospero 
was  to  have  access  to  the  laboratory  at  any  time,  not  suspect- 
ing this  form  of  danger. 

"There  are  three  hours  unaccounted  for  with  the  door  un- 
locked. I  suppose  that  was  done  with  some  idea  of  using  it  as 
an  alibi,"  I  said. 

"It  does  beat  hell,  the  cussed  things  that  can  happen  in  this 
world,  Ted,"  Knowlton  generalized.  "Still,  I  want  to  go  very 
easy  on  any  legal  proceedings,  for  two  good  reasons:  it's  pos- 


130  I   WALKED    IN   ARDEN 

sible  I  can  talk  to  Prospero  when  he's  sober,  and  second,  any 
publicity  will  put  the  bank  wise  that  we're  in  a  double  extra 
deep  bottomless  hole." 

"You  know  we  have  to  get  all  our  chemicals  from  New  York 
— so  the  first  thing  to  do  is  to  make  out  a  list,  for  I  can't  risk 
using  these  unlabeiled  bottles,  even  those  that  are  easily  rec- 
ognized.    The  contents  may  have  been  tampered  with." 

"Can  you  test  that?"  Knowlton  asked. 

"Yes."  I  took  at  random  two  or  three  bottles  and  poured 
some  of  their  contents  into  test-tubes.  I  then  tried  a  few  sim- 
ple reactions.  In  each  case,  the  chemical  purity  of  the  mate- 
rials proved  to  have  been  destroyed.  Our  hands  were  com- 
pletely tied. 

"That  old  devil  would  never  have  thought  of  that  all  by 
himself,"  Knowlton  said,  after  a  string  of  complicated  in* 
troductory  epithets.  "The  circus  woman  did  that — I  recog- 
nize the  feminine  touch." 

"I  can't  help  admiring  the  skill  with  which  it  was  done., 
Not  a  bottle  betrays  by  sight  or  smell,  except  for  the  missing 
label,  that  the  contents  aren't  all  right." 

Knowlton  grinned,  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Good  boy,  Ted.  I'm  glad  to  see  you  aren't  panic-stricken, 
any  way.  Well,  I  might  as  well  go  home  and  get  some  sleep. 
You  make  out  your  list  and  telegraph  tonight." 

I  began  my  list  of  needed  materials,  wondering  the  while 
what  Helen  would  say  if  she  knew  how  the  day  was  ending  for 
us  both.  The  thought  of  her  put  a  desperate  eagerness  into 
me — I  was  not  going  to  be  beaten,  black  as  things  looked. 
Then  a  new  idea  came  to  me.  Prospero  would  probably 
appear  in  the  morning  to  see  the  results;  if  he  found  me 
simply  getting  ready  to  begin  again,  he  might  try  a  new  scheme 
to  injure  us.  On  the  other  hand,  if  he  saw  me  working  away 
with  the  damaged  chemicals,  as  if  ignorant  of  what  had  hap- 
pened to  them,  he  would  conclude  his  devilish  plan  was  suc- 
ceeding and  keep  quiet.  I  left  my  desk,  lit  the  Bunsen  burners 
under  the  sand  baths,  and  set  out  several  dishes  of  compounds 
to  stew  and  evaporate.     I  spent  an  hour  or  more  in  care- 


I   PLAY   A   PART   IN   MELODRAMA       131 

fully  setting  my  stage;  under  the  safety  hood  there  was  a  fum- 
ing beaker;  there  were  filtrates  in  various  stages  of  progress, 
in  addition  to  the  dishes  over  the  flames.  It  was  a  normal- 
looking  night's  work — a  continuation  of  Friday's  experiments 
to  all  outward  appearances.  Then  I  returned  to  my  real 
work. 

About  four  in  the  morning  I  heard  a  familiar  step,  and  my 
heart  leaped  to  think  I  had  so  well  prepared  for  just  this 
contingency.  Prospero  entered,  bleary,  dishevelled,  his  flow- 
ing black  tie  loose  and  streaming,  his  brass-buttoned  waist- 
coat buttoned  awry,  his  yellow  gloves  dirty  and  stained.  On 
his  face  was  the  leering,  crafty  expression  of  the  drunkard  or 
the  insane. 

"You're  early,"  I  remarked  drily,  barely  glancing  at  him. 

"Got  a  big  idea,  Teddy — biggest  idea  I  ever  had — you  know 
that?" 

"Glad  to  hear  it,"  and  I  scratched  away  at  my  list. 

"Makin'  notes,  Ted?  That's  right — always  keep  your 
notes,"  and  he  roared  a  drunken  laugh.  He  walked  over  to 
one  of  the  experiments  and  smelt  the  beaker  cautiously.  He 
was  evidently  satisfied  his  plan  was  working,  for  he  laughed 
long  and  loudly  again.  "That's  good  stuff,  Ted.  Bril-bril- 
liant  idea — if  it  works.  You  must  keep  careful  notes  on  that 
ex — experiment." 

I  looked  at  him.  "You  are  a  great  chemist,  Mr.  de  Fou- 
gere,  but  even  I  know  enough  to  know  you  can't  always  tell 
what's  in  a  beaker  by  the  smell."     The  sarcasm  missed  him. 

"That's  right,  Ted — that's  right.  Best  ex-experiments  look 
all  right — good  theory,  but  won't  work." 

He  lit  a  cigarette  and  hummed  a  wabbly  tune,  sitting  astride 
a  chair  and  watching  me  with  his  empty  leer. 

"Why  did  you  wash  all  the  labels  off  the  bottles?"  I  asked 
quietly. 

"Secrecy,  Teddy — secrecy.  Important  work  here — worth 
millions.  Any  one  could  walk  in  and  find  out  all  about  it. 
We  know  all  the  bottles,  now,  Teddy — don't  need  labels,  do 
we  < 


132  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

The  telephone  stood  on  my  desk  in  front  of  me,  and  I  medi- 
tated calling  up  Knowlton.  Finally  I  thought  better  of  it,  for 
my  play  was  not  to  let  Prospero  know  we  had  any  inkling  of 
the  truth. 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  I  said,,  "taking  off  the  labels.  I  never 
thought  of  it  just  that  way  before." 

"Of  course  you  didn't,  Ted.  You  don't  know  the  world. 
"It's  a  rough  place,  my  boy — a  rough  place." 

"It  has  delayed  me  some,  because  you  didn't  tell  me  first," 
I  went  on  casually.  "For  instance,  I  want  the  bottle  with  the 
mixture  made  up  according  to  the  formula  you  worked  out  for 
the  Texas  contract.  We  have  to  start  work  on  that  job  at 
seven."     I  paused  and  pretended  to  look  through  my  papers. 

"The  Texas  contract,  eh?  You  know  the  formula — go 
ahead  and  make  it."  He  hugged  one  knee  and  his  eyes  nar- 
rowed at  me. 

"No,"  I  said,  "that  was  your  work." 

"It's  in  your  notes,  Ted.     Look  it  up." 

"I  took  a  copy  of  them  away  with  me  Saturday  morning — 
I'll  have  to  go  down  after  them,  if  you  don't  tell  me." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet:  "You  lie,  Ted,  God  damn  you,  you 
lie!"  My  hand  reached  for  the  telephone,  then  paused.  I  was 
puzzled  about  what  my  next  move  ought  to  be. 

"Are  you  goin'  to  sit  there  and  let  me  call  you  a  liar?"  he 
challenged.  I  turned  around  in  my  chair  and  looked  him 
over.  Excitement  was  working  him  up  to  a  frenzy;  his  lips 
drooled.  He  wasn't  a  pleasant  sight,  but,  curiously,  I  felt  no 
physical  fear;  it  was  the  critical  business  situation  that 
alarmed  me. 

"I  haven't  time  for  a  personal  quarrel,  Fougere,"  I  said. 
"At  present  our  business  is  to  make  good  on  the  Texas  con- 
tract. It's  true  that  I  have  no  copy  of  the  notes  you  de- 
stroyed." 

"Ah!"  he  exulted. 

"Cut  out  the  melodrama,"  I  said  with  a  pretence  of  bore- 
dom, "and  come  back  when  you  are  sober.  This  is  too  im- 
portant a  matter  to  play  with." 


I   PLAY   A   PART   IN   MELODRAMA        133 

"You  admit  it!"  he  shouted.  "I've  beaten  you  at  your  own 
filthy  game!"  He  turned  and  crashed  two  of  my  stewing 
beakers  to  the  floor  and  trampled  on  the  mess.  "Not  one  of 
your  experiments  will  work — I've  ruined  them  all!  You 
tried  to  trick  me,  but  by  God,  you  couldn't  do  it!" 

"I  know  that  you  are  a  drunkard  and  a  thief — and  one  or 
two  other  things — that  you  break  your  word  and  have  neither 
honour  nor  loyalty."  I  was  getting  as  eloquent  as  Prospero 
himself.  "Still,  you'll  tell  me  that  formula  or  you'll  land  in 
gaol." 

"You  can't  prove  anything  against  me — but  I  can  prove  you 
tried  to  steal  my  great  discovery — it  was  there,  in  your  notes, 
and  I  have  a  witness."  He  raved  in  his  excitement,  pacing 
the  floor  like  a  wild  animal. 

"What  discovery?"  I  asked,  as  he  bore  down  on  me. 
"The  making  of  electricity  direct  from  coal." 
"Oh,  hell!"  I  exclaimed.     "I  haven't  had  time  to  waste  on 
moonshine.     At  your  own  request  I   recorded  all  your  ex- 
periments, even  when  I  didn't  know  what  nonsense  they  were 
all  about." 

"I — I  make  nonsense — you  ignorant — " 
"Shut  up!  I  want  the  Texas  formula." 
"You'll  pay  me  my  terms  for  it." 

"No,  I  won't.  I'll  pay  mine,  which  is  the  salary  you  were 
hired  for.  You  have  one  wife  in  Cripple  Creek" — he  started, 
and  grasped  the  back  of  a  chair — "it  was  foolish  of  you  to 
marry  the  circus  woman  too.  Bigamy  is  still  a  crime,"  and  I 
felt  quite  satisfied  with  myself  as  I  noted  the  effect  of  this. 
"Well,"  I  thought,  "when  it  comes  to  playing  melodrama  with 
a  drug  fiend,  you  are  not  bad,  Ted!"  His  hands  shook,  but  he 
managed  to  light  another  cigarette. 

"Ted,  I've  been  drinking,"  he  mumbled,  with  an  ugly  grin 
that  ought  to  have  warned  me  he  wasn't  through.  "I  don't 
know  what  I've  been  saying" — he  staggered  to  his  feet  and  of- 
fered his  lean  scraggy  hand — "I'm  a  good  friend  of  yours, 
Ted.  I  always  have  been.  You  forget  the  wife  in  Cripple 
Creek — and  we'll  mix  up  the  Texas  formula." 


134  I   WALKED    IN   ARDEN 

I  took  his  hand,  feeling  quite  triumphant.  "Knowlton  will 
be  proud  of  me,"  I  thought. 

"I'll  forget  either  wife  you  say — or  both,"  I  said.  "Let's 
get  to  work." 

"That's  it.  Work.  You're  a  good  fellow,  Teddy,"  and  he 
lurched  toward  the  shelves  of  bottles.  "You  thought  I'd 
thrown  it  away?"  he  turned  with  his  leer  again.  "You're 
wrong,  Ted.  I'm  too  old  a  fox  for  that,  eh?  Here  it  is," 
and  he  handed  me  a  blue  glass  bottle  with  a  rubber  cork. 
"Right  under  your  nose  all  the  time,  and  you  didn't  know  it." 

I  snatched  it  eagerly  from  him,  and  he  chuckled.  I  was  so 
certain  that  I  was  carrying  all  before  me  no  suspicion  crossed 
my  mind. 

"Analyze  it,  Ted,  if  you  don't  trust  me,"  he  urged. 

"It's  only  business  if  I  do,"  I  replied. 

"That's  right — get  it  down  in  black  and  white.  I  never 
remember  formulas." 

I  poured  a  little  into  a  test  tube;  in  colour  and  appearance 
it  was  as  I  remembered  it  to  be.  He  took  the  tube  from  me 
and  lightly  passed  it  back  and  forth  through  a  Bunsen  flame. 
The  liquid  bubbled  and  began  to  give  off  fumes  whose  odour 
was  queer — unlike  what  I  expected.  I  felt  dizzy  for  a  mo- 
ment, but  recovered. 

"It  doesn't  smell  like  the  other  when  you  evaporate  it," 
I  said,  with  returning  suspicion. 

"It's  all  right,  Ted.  I  added  an  aromatic  oil  to  it  to  throw 
curious  people  off  the  track — we  haven't  got  our  patent  yet,  and 
the  world's  a  rough  place,  Ted." 

"I  hope  you  haven't  ruined  it,"  I  exclaimed,  much  angered. 
One  of  the  curses  of  his  work  was  the  fact  that  he  never  al- 
lowed a  formula  to  be  finished,  but  was  always  adding,  adding 
to  it. 

"Perfectly  harmless,  Ted.  Just  a  pleasant  smell — that's 
all." 

He  poured  some  more  into  a  shallow  Meissen  dish  and 
placed  it  over  the  sand-bath  flame. 


I    PLAY   A   PART   IN   MELODRAMA        135 

"Watch  it,  Ted.  The  crystals  are  long  and  needlelike  when 
it  evaporates  down.     It's  easy  to  analyse  then." 

I  sat  over  it  in  my  excitement,  with  the  pleasant  smelling 
fumes  now  and  then  blowing  in  my  face.  The  hawk-like 
countenance  of  Prospero  peered  over  my  shoulder. 

Why  was  he  wearing  a  magician's  robe,  I  wondered,  with 
stars  of  gold  and  signs  of  the  Zodiac  upon  it?  Was  it  drink 
that  made  his  eyes  shine  with  blue  fire?  Opposite  me  Helen 
was  standing,  dressed  in  mediaeval  costume,  her  hair  flowing, 
violets  trailing  everywhere  about  her.  I  tried  to  speak  to  her, 
and  to  take  her  hand,  and  could  not,  even  when  she  smiled.  I 
wanted  to  tell  her  that  Milton's  epithet  about  the  violet  was 
true — "the  glowing  violet" — there  they  were  glowing  like  the 
liquid  in  a  test  tube,  or  like  the  philosopher's  stone,  which 
was  it? 

Then  I  knew  no  more. 


Chapter  Nine 
i  come   face   to   face   with   the   future 

1  OPENED  my  eyes,  and  there  was  Helen  smiling  at  me — 
not  in  mediaeval  dress  this  time,  but  with  a  bunch  of 
glowing  violets  at  her  belt.  How  curious  for  her  to 
come  to  the  laboratory  at  night!  I  looked  about:  there  was 
Knowlton  sitting  near  with  the  cheerfulest  of  grins  on  his 
face,  and  Mr.  Claybourne  too.  What  was  happening?  I 
made  an  effort,  as  I  realized  I  had  something  of  importance  to 
tell  Knowlton. 

"The  Texas  formula — "  words  seemed  strangely  difficult  to 
say — "Prospero  has  it.  It's  in  the  blue  bottle  with  the  rubber 
cork—" 

"Hush,  dear,"  I  heard  Helen  say,  "you  mustn't  try  to  talk 
just  yet,"  and  she  patted  my  pillow,  kissed  me,  and  gave  me 
something  cool  to  drink.  I  looked  blankly  about,  but  the 
room  was  quite  dark — I  was  in  bed! 

"Isn't  this  the  laboratory?"  I  asked  helplessly.  My  head 
ached  and  whirled;  my  thoughts  refused  to  work  at  this  new 
problem. 

"No,  dearest,"  Helen's  gentle  voice  said,  "you  are  at  home — 
with  me." 

"Home?"  I  wrestled  vaguely  with  this  idea.  Where  was 
home? — with  me? 

"At  my  house,  Ted,  dear — here  in  Deep  Harbor,"  Helen 
whispered,  her  lips  brushing  my  cheek. 

"Your  knee — you  mustn't  stand,"  I  faltered,  some  recol- 
lection fighting  through  the  chaos  in  my  head. 

"It's  almost  well,  Ted  dear.  Watch  me  walk!"  and  she  took 
a  few  steps  away,  then  back  to  me. 

"But  last  night — ?"  I  gave  it  up  as  Helen  put  her  cool 
hand  over  my  month  to  silence  me. 

136 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  FUTURE   137 

"Well,  well,"  I  heard  a  hearty  sounding  voice  say  at  the 
door,  "it's  quite  seasonable  weather  for  Thanksgiving,  isn't 
it?  Snowing  like  the  deuce — whew!  And  how's  our  patient 
this  morning?  I'll  bet  he  slept  all  right  last  night  after  that 
potion  I  gave  him,"  and  a  frock-coated,  checked-waistcoated 
man  walked  up  to  my  bed. 

"Hello,"  he  said  quickly  as  he  looked  at  me,  speaking  in  a 
low  tone  to  Helen.     "When  did  the  delirium  leave  him?" 

"He  has  just  waked  up,"  I  heard  her  reply. 

"Who  are  you?"  I  said,  almost  aggressively,  to  the  new 
arrival. 

"Who  am  I?  Come,  that's  a  good  one,"  he  chuckled, 
apparently  immensely  pleased.  "Who  am  I,  Claybourne, 
eh?" 

"Ted,  this  is  Dr.  Sinclair,  who  has  been  looking  after  you 
ever  since." 

"Ever  since  what?"  I  persisted.  It  was  all  a  most  annoying 
puzzle.  "Helen,  can't  you  explain? — please!"  I  said  petu- 
lantly. 

"Now  then,  how's  our  temperature  today?" — and  before  I 
could  say  more  Dr.  Sinclair  rendered  me  speechless  with  a 
little  glass  rod  in  my  mouth  that  I  was  mortally  afraid  of 
breaking.  I  lay  there,  looking  first  at  him  and  then  at  Helen, 
who  smiled  encouragement  at  me;  Dr.  Sinclair  kept  his  eyes 
on  a  noisy  gold  watch.  Rebellion  was  gathering  headway 
within:  why  was  I  being  treated  like  a  child  and  put  to  bed? 
Some  doctor's  silly  whim;  he  probably  had  made  Helen 
believe  I'd  been  overworking,  when  there  was  the  Texas  for- 
mula to  solve.  It  was  preposterous  to  lose  time  this  way! 
What  was  the  matter  with  Knowlton,  that  he  let  them  do  it? 

"Well!"  exclaimed  the  doctor,  walking  to  the  window  with 
his  thermometer  and  letting  in  the  light.  I  could  see  snow  on 
the  roofs  opposite.  "We  are  almost  normal  again — not  quite, 
but  almost."  Helen  clapped  her  hands  and  gave  a  little  cry. 
He  shook  the  thermometer  vigorously,  put  it  away  in  his  coat, 
put  on  his  glasses,  and  surveyed  me  over  the  tops  of  them  from 
the  window.     "No  excitement  yet — no  worry,  remember  that, 


138  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

Miss  Helen.  Absolute  quiet — nature's  restorative,  you  know 
— that's  the  word.  Give  nature  a  chance,  that's  all  we  need 
now." 

"You  don't  need  to  talk  about  me  as  if  I  were  a  baby,"  I 
interjected,  my  eyes  burning  with  a  strange  anger. 

"Hush,  dear — you  trust  me,  don't  you?"  I  heard  Helen 
say. 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  baffled  and  abandoning  the  struggle. 
It  was  all  right  to  leave  it  in  her  hands. 

"That's  one  of  the  symptoms,"  Dr.  Sinclair  coughed  into 
the  palm  of  his  hand.  I  coul'd  hear  every  syllable.  "Ex- 
treme excitability  and  irritation;  the  least  little  thing  will 
arouse  it.  Hence  caution,  my  dear  young  lady,  caution. 
Keep  on  with  the  jellied  boullion — not  too  much — just  a  few 
spoonfuls — " 

"Damn  it,  I'm  not  an  invalid!"  I  tried  to  shout,  but  my 
voice  broke,  and  only  husky,  throaty  sounds  came  forth.  "I 
beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Claybourne — I  didn't  mean  to  swear  be- 
fore Helen — but  I  don't  like  that  smug,  oily,  self-satisfied 
man — "  and  I  pointed  my  finger  at  Dr.  Sinclair.  The  latter 
took  a  step  or  two  backward,  like  a  person  retreating  from  an 
unpleasant  footing. 

"Ahem!"  coughed  Dr.  Sinclair.  "I  think,  Miss  Helen,  it 
will  be  wiser  to  tell  him — you  can  do  it  best,  without  exciting 
him.  Er — I'll  look  in  again  this  evening."  Mr.  Claybourne 
accompanied  him  downstairs. 

"What  are  they  planning  to  do  with  me  now?"  and  I  tried  to 
rise  up  on  one  elbow,  but  found  it  unaccountably  beyond  my 
strength.     Helen  put  one  arm  around  me. 

"You  believe  in  me,  don't  you,  Ted?" 

"Yes,"  and  I  clutched  her  hand.  "Please  keep  the  others 
away  from  me.     I  must  tell  you  something — it's  important — " 

Knowlton  arose.  "Don't  bother  about  that  now,  Ted,"  he 
said.  "I  know  all  about  the  Texas  formula — it's  all  right — do 
you  get  me?" 

"I  think  I'd  go,  Mr.  Knowlton,"  Helen  said.  "Let  me  tell 
him  all  by  myself." 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  FUTURE   139 

Knowlton  bowed  and  shook  her  hand.  Then  he  came  over 
to  me  and  offered  his  hand  to  me. 

"Ted,  I'm  not  much  of  a  talker;  this  is  just  to  tell  you  I'm 
glad."  _ 

I  took  his  hand,  since  he  seemed  to  wish  it,  and  he  left  the 
room.  I  looked  around  at  Helen:  "Why  did  you  come  to  me 
at  the  laboratory  last  night  in  mediaeval  dress  when  Prospero 
was  trying  an  incantation?" 

Her  face  clouded,  and  she  hastened  to  me,  laying  her  cool 
hand  on  my  forehead. 

"Hush,  Teddy,  sweetheart,"  she  put  her  face  close  to  mine. 
I  could  feel  that  her  eyelashes  were  wet. 

"It  was  the  formula — not  an  incantation,"  I  went  on — "  it 
must  have  been  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac  that  confused  me." 

"Teddy,  do  you  know  me? — it's  Helen,"  she  kissed  into  my 
ear. 

"I  know,  dear,  I  know,"  I  said.  "I  love  you,  Lady  Grey 
Eyes." 

She  kissed  me  on  the  mouth.  "Then  listen,  Ted,  and  try  not 
to  interrupt.     Just  lie  quietly  here  and  hold  my  hand." 

"Of  course,"  I  promised. 

"Prospero  was  a  very  wicked  man,  Ted — " 

"He  drank  and  was  a  drug  fiend,  but  he  does  know  the 
formula—" 

"You  promised  not  to  interrupt."  Every  word  of  her  gentle 
voice  was  soothing;  I  could  feel  it  steal  over  me,  driving  away 
a  great  fatigue.     "Quite  quiet,  Ted?" 

"Yes." 

"That  night  at  the  laboratory  he  tried  to  poison  you1,  Ted, 
with  fumes  from  a  mixture  in  a  dish.  You  were  unconscious 
when  they  found  you." 

I  laughed  weakly,  it  all  sounded  so  preposterous. 

"You  don't  know  chemistry,  dear,"  I  said,  feeling  quite 
superior.  "He  couldn't  poison  me  that  way  without  poisoning 
himself." 

"He  did,"  Helen  said  very  slowly.  "When  they  found  you, 
Prospero  was  dead." 


140  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

It  took  a  long  time  for  this  to  get  into  my  brain  in  plausible 
shape. 

"Prospero — dead?"  I  puzzled. 

"Yes,  dear." 

"But  there  was  nothing  poisonous  in  the  fumes  of  the  Texas 
formula — only  an  aromatic  oil  to  deceive  meddlers." 

"Prospero  used  that  oil  as  a  solvent  for  the  poison — you 
see,  Ted,  I've  been  studying  chemistry  too — I  shall  read  you 
the  analysis  we  had  made,  tomorrow." 

"Analysis — then  you've  found  out  the  Texas  formula?" 

"Yes,  Ted.     It's  all  right — the  factory  is  making  it  now." 

"Did  you  work  it  out?"  I  asked — the  puzzle  was  only  slowly 
unravelling. 

"No,  dear — my  chemistry  hasn't  gone  that  far!  The  young 
assistant  Knowlton  got  from  the  Owens'  Company  did  it." 

"And  the  poison?" 

"That  was  the  difficulty.  When  we  first  got  to  you,  Ted,  we 
didn't  know  what  it  was,  or  what  antidote  to  use.  Your  heart 
had  slowed  down  to  almost  nothing — " 

"There  is  a  poison  chart  with  a  list  of  the  symptoms  and 
antidotes  in  my  desk." 

"Yes,  Ted.     I  found  that,  and  we  got  Dr.  Sinclair  quickly." 

"You  found  it?" 

"It  was  about  five  in  the  morning  when  one  of  the  foremen 
happened  to  go  into  your  laboratory.  It  made  him  ill,  for  the 
place  was  reeking — you  and  Prospero  were  lying  on  the  floor. 
He  threw  open  the  windows  and  telephoned  Mr.  Knowlton. 
He  dressed  and  called  up  father,  and  I  went  too,  in  spite  of  my 
knee." 

"But  why  did  Knowlton  call  up  your  father?" 

"To  let  me  know,  Ted.  Wasn't  that  dear  of  him?  And  I 
was  really  able  to  help.  They  wanted  to  take  you  to  a  hos- 
pital, but  dad  wouldn't  listen  to  that — and  so  here  you  are." 

I  kissed  her  hand  and  tried  to  put  in  order  the  story  as  she 
had  told  it. 

"I  wonder  why  it  didn't  kill  me,  if  it  killed  Prospero?" 

I  felt  her  clutch  my  hand. 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  FUTURE   141 

"I  wonder  too,  Ted  darling,"  she  whispered.  "The  doctor 
says  your  youth  and  constitution  saved  you.  I  wonder  if  that 
explains  all?" 

"Perhaps  there  was  something  to  help — your  love  and  care," 
I  smiled. 

"Even  something  beyond  that,  Ted  dear.  You  see,  Pros- 
pero  had  no  chance,  the  doctor  said,  because  of  his  drinking 
and  drug-taking." 

"It  must  have  been  a  shock  to  'mother.'  "  I  don't  know  why 
I  hadn't  thought  of  her  before,  or  why  I  thought  of  her  now. 
Helen  laughed  one  of  her  "questing  laughs,"  the  happy  kind 
that  only  I  was  privileged  to  hear. 

"Poor  mother!  She  telegraphed  for  Miss  Hershey  to  come 
and  chaperon  me  and  went  herself  to  Asheville  until  Christmas. 
To  have  a  real  invalid  in  the  house  was  the  last  straw!" 

"But  Leonidas!"  I  cried.  "The  poor  hound  is  shut  up  in  my 
rooms." 

"No,  he  isn't,  Ted.  Dad  went  for  him.  He  is  asleep  in 
front  of  the  fire  downstairs." 

"So  you  are  in  Miss  Hershey's  hands?" 

"Yes,  but  she  is  wonderfully  tame,  Ted,  now  she  knows  about 
you." 

"What  a  marvellous  forty-eight  hours  it  has  been!"  I  said. 
"We  set  forth  after  the  questing  beast  in  the  morning — and 
before  two  suns,  find  love  and  life  and  death,  all  very  near  one 
another  and  each  of  them  lurking  in  the  most  unlikely  places." 

"I  think,  Ted,  that  that  is  always  the  way  one  finds  them — 
love,  and  life,  and  death  are  very  near  together — everywhere 
just  as  we  have  read  of  them  in  Mallory." 

She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

"The  snow  is  getting  deep,  Ted — you  wouldn't  know  Myrtle 
Boulevard." 

"Yes,  I  should,"  I  answered.  "It  is  the  way  leading  down 
to  Camelot." 

She  smiled,  and  the  snow-light  shone  on  her  face,  making 
her  beauty  luminous. 

"It's  Thanksgiving  Day,  Ted — did  you  know  it?" 


142  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"Then  I've  been  here—" 

"Ten  days."     She  came  back  to  my  side. 

"Thanksgiving,"  I  heard  her  murmur  to  herself — "dear 
God!     I'm  thankful." 

"And  you  have  nursed  me  all  this  time?" 

"No,  dear.  You  have  a  trained  nurse  to  look  after  you — it 
was  too  serious  to  take  any  chances.  I'm  only  the  girl  who 
loves  you,"  and  she  tucked  a  violet  over  my  left  ear,  laughing 
with  the  old  ring  of  mischief  in  her  voice.  "Now  you've 
talked  enough  and  must  go  to  sleep.  I'll  come  back  soon  and 
bring  you  your  Thanksgiving  dinner — some  delicious  jellied 
bouillion.  No — not  another  word,"  and  she  was  gone,  closing 
the  door  after  her. 

Naturally  I  could  not  sleep.  In  the  first  place,  I  argued 
with  myself,  my  head  not  only  feels  queer  but  it  aches  abomi* 
nably;  in  the  second  place,  enough  has  happened  to  give  in- 
somnia to  all  the  seven  sleepers  of  Ephesus.  The  latter 
thought  pleased  me,  and  I  laughed  all  by  myself.  My  mind 
began  to  stroll  about  again  in  a  waking  dream,  partly  caused 
by  my  weakness  and  partly  by  the  delirium  which  had  ceased 
only  a  few  hours  ago.  Why  had  Prospero  tried  to  kill  me? 
It  seemed  a  motiveless  thing  to  do,  particularly  as  he  had 
chosen  to  involve  himself.  Must  have  been  insane,  I  con- 
cluded. He  was  fairly  skilful  about  it,  too — how  did  they 
know  I  hadn't  killed  him?  There  we  both  were,  and  no  one 
to  say  who  put  the  poison  in  the  dish.  This  worried  me. 
Suppose  they  ask  me  awkward  questions  at  the  inquest?  I 
must  talk  to  Helen  about  that.  Helen !  I  hardly  dared  think 
about  her — her  love  was  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the 
world — why  had  she  given  it  to  me?  How  had  I  deserved 
it?     It  was  a  miracle  one  couldn't  analyse.  .  .  . 

"Ted,  dear,  it's  time  to  take  your  medicine."  I  almost  sat 
up,  I  was  so  surprised.  I  had  slept,  after  all — most  soundly. 
Furthermore,  I  felt  refreshed  and  stronger.  There  stood  Helen 
in  the  door,  with  a  buxom-looking  young  woman  in  nurse's 
uniform  beside  her,  carrying  a  glass  on  a  tray. 

"This  is  your  nurse,  Miss  Conover,  Ted." 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  FUTURE   143 

"How  do  you  do?"  I  said  to  this  person,  who  began  to  bang 
my  pillows  about  in  a  most  business-like  way,  as  much  as  to 
imply  she  was  not  in  the  habit  of  putting  up  with  any  non- 
sense from  her  patients. 

"Quite  well,  thank  you,"  and  she  presented  a  spoonful  of 
medicine. 

"What's  in  it?"  I  asked.  "I'm  a  chemist,  and  I  don't  like 
to  take  unknown  compounds." 

"You  aren't  a  biological  chemist,  are  you?" 

"No." 

"Then  you'd  better  follow  your  doctor's  orders." 

I  felt  that  curious  anger  against  strangers  coming  back. 

"If  you  don't  tell  me  what  it  is — I'll— I'll  spill  it  on  the 
floor,"  I  said. 

Helen  stepped  forward  quickly. 

"You'll  take  it  from  me,  Ted,  won't  you?"  and  she  offered 
the  spoon.  "It's  a  sedative,  dear — we  had  to  give  you  such 
quantities  of  stimulants  to  counteract  the  poison." 

Calm  returned,  and  I  meekly  licked  the  spoon. 

"Take  her  away!"  I  whispered  to  Helen,  rolling  my  head 
toward  the  aggressively  efficient  Miss  Conover,  who  was  tidy- 
ing the  room  energetically. 

"Ted,  dear,  you  are  getting  well  now.  You  must  get  used  to 
strangers  about  you,  especially  when  they  have  been  so  kind 
to  you  as  Dr.  Sinclair  and  Miss  Conover,"  and  Helen  patted 
my  shoulder. 

Miss  Conover  joined  in:  "Didn't  I  tell  you,  Miss  Helen,  they 
was  a  whole  lot  easier  to  get  on  with  delirious  than  convales- 
cent? You  was  wishing  for  him  to  come  out  of  it,  but  you 
ain't  had  my  experience.  I'd  rather  put  a  straight  jacket  on  a 
nut  than  fetch  a  pipe  and  tobacco  for  a  man  the  day  before  his 
hospital  discharge." 

Helen  looked  down  at  me  with  her  eyes  dancing,  and  the 
black  murder  that  had  been  swelling  up  in  me,  during  Miss 
Conover's  disquisition  on  the  care  of  men,  subsided. 

"I'll  send  her  away,  Ted,"  she  said,  kissing  me.  "I  believe 
this  time  you  are  right." 


144  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

Mr.  Claybourne  came  in,  radiating  cheerfulness. 

"Well,  Ted,  old  man,  how's  the  boy?"  he  shouted. 

"Quietly,  dad,  quietly,"  reproved  Helen. 

"He's  that  touchy!  It's  only  the  effect  of  the  fever.  They 
are  nearly  always  like  that  afterwards.  Why,  I've  seen  'em 
pass  away  growling  at  everybody  right  up  to  the  finish,"  Miss 
Conover  threw  in  for  good  measure. 

"I'm  very  grateful  to  you,  Mr.  Claybourne,"  I  stammered, 
ignoring  the  nurse- 

"Oh,  tell  all  that  to  Helen,"  he  laughed.  "She's  responsible, 
anyway.  Come,  little  girl,  it's  two  o'clock,  and  there's  a  big 
turkey  and  fixin's  waiting  downstairs.  You'll  have  to  leave 
Ted  awhile  to  eat  Thanksgiving  dinner  with  your  dad." 

"There's  a  dramatic  choice  for  you,  Helen — parental  love 
and  duty  versus  self-sacrifice  beside  the  pallid  cot  of  the  lowly 
and  sick,"  I  smiled  at  her. 

"Dad,  Ted's  recovering  a  sense  of  humour — it's  a  little 
clumsy  and  conceited  still,  but  it's  coming  back!  Dad, — why 
can't  we  have  this  room  cleared  and  our  table  set  up  here? 
You  know  Ted  hasn't  seen  a  Thanksgiving  turkey  since  he  was 
a  little  boy.  They  don't  have  Thanksgiving  in  England — and 
it  seems  so  mean  to  go  downstairs  and  stuff  all  by  ourselves!" 

Mr.  Claybourne  looked  doubtfully  about  the  room.  I  sym- 
pathized with  his  feelings,  for  a  sick  room  is  the  last  place  one 
would  choose  for  a  banquet. 

"That  would  be  too  much  like  writing  Hamlet  in  a  charnel 
house.  Can't  you  carry  me  downstairs?  and  I'll  sit  with 
Leonidas  before  the  fire  while  the  rest  of  you  gorge,"  I  urged. 

"How  about  that,  Miss  Conover?"  Claybourne  asked.  Miss 
Conover  looked  at  me,  and  I  suspected  revenge  to  be  brooding 
in  her  eye.     Helen  added  her  entreaty,  and  the  nurse  wavered. 

"I  suppose  there'll  be  less  trouble  in  the  end  if  we  carry  him 
down,  though  what  Dr.  Sinclair  will  say,  goodness  knows," 
Miss  Conover  conceded  grudgingly.  "But  it'll  only  be  for  an 
hour,  and  then  no  more  talk  or  visitors  today." 

"Agreed,"  I  cried;  "any  price  you  say,  nurse." 

"Miss  Conover,"  she  corrected. 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  FUTURE   145 

"I  beg  your  pardon — good  nature  made  me  careless."  Helen 
giggled.  I  was  rolled  up  in  dressing  gown  and  blankets  and 
carried  downstairs  by  Mr.  Claybourne,  Helen  and  Miss 
Conover  followed  with  pillows  and  miscellaneous  glassware. 
Leonidas  took  a  sniff  at  me  and  then  greeted  me  with  the  most 
exuberant  enthusiasm,  knocking  over  at  least  one  piece  of 
furniture  by  the  sheer  power  in  his  wagging  tail.  I  had  an 
armchair  before  a  fire  of  crackling  hickory  logs;  there  was  a 
small  table  beside  me,  with  some  of  Helen's  violets  in  a  little 
vase  in  the  centre. 

Helen,  her  father,  and  Miss  Conover  sat  at  -their  gaily  decked 
table,  on  which  was  a  mountain  of  autumn  fruit  piled  about  an 
enormous  pumpkin.  The  maid  brought  in  a  turkey  as  big  as 
a  boar's  head.  Mr.  Claybourne  busied  himself  with  opening  a 
bottle  of  champagne.  Helen  insisted  that  the  turkey  be  placed 
before  me  and  helped  me  carve  the  first  slice  before  it  was 
removed  to  Mr.  Claybourne's  seat. 

"Isn't  it  a  shame  you  can't  eat  any  of  it,"  Helen  cried.  Just 
then  I  did  not  care  to.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  smell  of  the  food 
made  me  feel  so  ill  I  was  not  certain  I  could  stick  the  dinner 
out.  But  I  knew  better  than  to  give  Miss  Conover  an  inkling 
of  this.  "It  isn't  as  if  one  could  make  a  dash  for  the  upper 
deck,  either,"  I  thought  to  myself.  At  a  critical  moment  the 
nurse  placed  some  jellied  bouillon  before  me  and  threatened 
forcible  feeding.  "One  inch  nearer  with  a  spoonful  of  that 
stuff,  and  there'll  be  a  real  catastrophe,"  I  murmured  inwardly. 
I  violently  waved  it  away.  Helen  flew  to  my  rescue.  "I  think 
if  we  leave  Ted  quite  alone,  he'll  eat  it  by  himself  when  he  feels 
like  it,"  she  advised  Miss  Conover. 

"The  doctor  ordered  him  to  eat  it,"  the  nurse  stubbornly  con- 
tended. Helen  conquered  her,  and  I  was  left,  not  exactly  at 
peace,  but  in  a  state  of  armed  neutrality  within.  By  concen- 
trating my  attention  on  the  dancing  flames  in  the  chimney  I  kept 
the  internal  factions  quiet. 

Mr.  Claybourne  ran  through  his  series  of  champagne  toasts, 
repeating  all  the  funny  ones  we  had  heard  last  time.  He  was 
eager  for  me  to  have  one  sip,  but  Helen  stood  firm.     Miss 


146  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

Conover  sat  in  stern  disapproval  of  the  champagne,  her  glass 
inverted  before  her,  as  if  to  emphasize  with  a  kind  of  crystal 
exclamation  point  her  opinion  of  such  proceedings. 

"Where  is  Miss  Hershey?"  I  asked,  as  soon  as  I  had  the 
stomach  for  such  a  question. 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  Ted.  She's  dining  out  with  an  ex- 
governor  of  Georgia — I  believe  a  third  cousin  twice  removed  of 
her  mother's  aunt,  or  some  complicated  Southern  family  rela- 
tionship like  that." 

"I  thought  she  said  he  was  her  cousin,"  Mr.  Claybourne  cor- 
rected. Helen  winked  at  me;  Miss  Hershey  would  have  called 
it  "unmaidenly." 

"I  believe  all  Southerners  who  are  anybody  are  each  other's 
cousins,  dad.  Anyway,  she  said  they  didn't  pay  much  atten- 
tion to  Thanksgiving  in  the  South,  and  she  preferred  not  to  be 
here." 

"The  bloody  shirt  again,  eh?"  said  Mr.  Claybourne. 

"I  can't  imagine  Miss  Hershey  in  a  bloody  shirt,"  I  mur- 
mured. 

"Really  Mr.  Edward!"  Miss  Conover  exclaimed,  half  rising 
from  the  table.  Helen  laughed.  "I  don't  think  such  remarks 
is  nice,"  Miss  Conover  continued. 

"H'm,"  said  Mr.  Claybourne,  evidently  wondering  what  it 
was  all  about. 

"How's  your  foot,  Ted?"  Helen  called  out. 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  Ted's  foot,  is  there?"  said 
Mr.  Claybourne. 

"Not  a  thing!"  snapped  Miss  Conover. 

"There's  your  answer,  Lady  Grey  Eyes,"  I  laughed. 

"What  are  we  talking  about?"  Mr.  Claybourne  inquired. 

"It's  just  a  private  joke  between  Ted  and  me,  dad.  You 
wouldn't  understand,"  Helen  explained. 

"Then  I  don't  think  it's  very  polite  of  you  to  refer  to  it  be- 
fore others,"  her  father  grumbled.  "I'm  surprised  at  you, 
Ted." 

"My  opinion  exactly,"  Miss  Conover  hastened  to  agree. 

The  tension  was  broken  by  the  arrival  of  the  maid  with  three 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  FUTURE   147 

kinds  of  pie — mince,  pumpkin,  and  cranberry.  Upon  the  later 
arrival  of  coffee,  Miss  Conover  got  up  from  the  table. 

"Time's  up,"  she  announced.  "We'll  carry  Mr.  Edward  up- 
stairs." 

"A  bargain's  a  bargain,  and  I'll  go  quietly,"  I  said,  "but 
damn  it  all  just  the  same." 

"Edward,  will  you  oblige  me  by  not  swearing  before  Helen," 
Mr.  Claybourne  declaimed. 

"I  beg  your  pardon — and  Helen's,  if  she  wants  it.  Hap- 
piness has  a  bad  effect  on  my  manners." 

They  put  me  away  in  the  dark  room.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning  Knowlton  dropped  in  to  see  me  on  the  way 
to  the  office.  Dr.  Sinclair  had  called  first  and  expressed  ap- 
proval of  my  progress.  He  also  gave  permission  to  talk 
business  for  half  an  hour,  which  was  why  I  had  Knowlton 
summoned  by  telephone. 

"Well,  Ted,  our  friend  nearly  did  for  you,"  he  said  with  his 
diabolic  grin,  as  he  drew  a  chair  alongside  my  bed.  "I  cer- 
tainly was  scared  until  the  doc  said  he  thought  he  could  pull 
you  through."  I  knew  that  for  Knowlton  to  admit  this  much 
was  for  him  to  confess  he  had  passed  through  an  emotional 
crisis.  Of  course  the  way  he  put  it  was  part  of  the  "hard- 
headed"  pose  of  all  our  race,  whether  English  or  American. 
It  is  the  half-unconscious  way  in  which  we  hide  our  sentimen- 
tality when  the  latter  collides  with  reality. 

"Thanks,  Knowlton,"  I  replied;  "it  would  be  awkward  for 
the  business  if  I  got  out  ahead  of  time."  I  could  not  resist 
teasing  him  this  much. 

"Wasn't  just  what  I  meant,  Ted,"  he  said,  squirming  un- 
comfortably. "Well,  I  guess  it  doesn't  matter.  The  point  now 
is  that  the  Owens  people  sent  us  a  cracker  jack,  A-number-one 
man,  and  he  analyzed  the  Texas  formula  in  a  jiffy,  so  to  speak. 
Prospero  lost  us  only  four  days,  and  the  Owens  man  has 
speeded  us  up  so  we  have  made  that  good.  He  costs  like  hell, 
though,  and  as  soon  as  you  can  get  out  again,  Ted,  I'll  let  him 
go." 


148  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

"When  will  I  be  back,  do  you  think?" 

"Not  until  after  Christmas — and  then  no  more  night  work. 
We'll  move  you  back  to  the  day-shift.  It's  a  damned  nui- 
sance." 

"It's  something  of  a  nusiance  for  me,  too,"  I  said,  "having 
your  pet  employee  trying  to  murder  me.  I  hope  you  appreci- 
ate it  has  been  inconvenient." 

Knowlton  grinned :  "Good  boy,  Ted,  that's  the  stuff.  Never 
lose  your  nerve." 

"Why  did  Prospero  do  it? — that's  what  I  can't  understand." 

"Paranoia,  Ted — delusion  of  persecution:  he  worked  with 
you,  so  he  chose  you  for  his  best  hallucination.  Thought  you 
were  stealing  his  great  idea  about  electricity  direct  from  coal." 

"How  do  you  know?  Did  he  leave  a  confession  sticking  out 
of  his  right  boot?"     I  tried  what  I  imagined  to  be  sarcasm. 

"No,  but  he  used  to  tell  me  all  about  it.  Said  you  dogged 
his  every  step.  I  warned  you,  Ted,  to  look  out  for  him.  I 
never  thought  he'd  pull  anything  off  in  the  factory  with  three 
hundred  workmen  all  around.  Outside,  I  judged  you  were 
pretty  safe — besides,  his  time  was  'most  up.  I  guess  I  was  a 
little  careless,  Ted." 

"What  did  the  police  say?     Were  they  interested?" 

"Not  much,  after  they  heard  my  story.  The  Chief  is  a  good 
friend  of  mine — I  play  pinochle  with  him  Saturday  nights. 
He  thinks  it  just  as  well  for  you  to  look  in  at  the  Coroner's 
office  some  day  when  you  are  all  right — just  to  dictate  a  little 
account  of  how  it  happened.  He  wants  it  to  complete  his 
records." 

I  marvelled  at  this  easy-going,  personally  conducted  justice. 

"How  about  the  circus  woman?" 

"Oh,  we  let  her  go.  What  was  the  use?  She  has  an  alibi 
a  mile  long." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  all  this  can  happen  without  any  one 
being  interested  enough  to  require  an  investigation?" 

"Sure— didn't  I  tell  you  I  fixed  it  up  with  the  Chief?  He 
knows  we're  on  the  square,  Ted.     The  newspapers  ran  a  peaeh 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  FUTURE   149 

•f  a  story — whole  front  page.  I  gave  'em  a  picture  of  you  I 
dug  out  of  your  room.  You'll  find  yourself  quite  a  local  hero 
when  you  get  out.  There  was  some  good  sob  stuff  in  it  about 
Miss  Claybourne  nursing  you  back  from  the  Valley  of  the  Sha- 
dow.    I  don't  believe  her  old  man  liked  it." 

"I  should  think  not,"  I  cried  indignantly.  "It  was  out- 
rageous." 

"Well,  Ted,  I  don't  believe  you'll  have  to  announce  your 
engagement.  It's  saved  you  that  much  trouble.  The  paper 
said  you  were  related  to  the  English  nobility,  and  hinted  that 
Miss  Claybourne  was  the  true  explanation  of  your  coming  to 
Deep  Harbor.  When  the  evening  paper  came  out,  the  head- 
line man  boosted  you  up  a  notch  higher — something  about 
'English  peer's  son  nursed  by  local  society  girl' — say,  you 
furnished  'em  great  stuff  for  three  days." 

"That  must  be  the  real  reason  'mother'  went  to  Asheviile," 
I  reflected. 

'Ted,  what  I  don't  understand  is  how  Prospero  could  slip 
anything  like  that  over  on  you.  As  a  chemist  you  ought  to 
know  enough  to  look  out  for  fumes.  How'd  he  do  it?  Hyp- 
notize you?" 

"Like  you,"  I  replied,  "I  guess  I  was  a  little  careless.  You 
see,  oil  of  cassia  has  a  pleasant  smell — really  delicious — it's 
just  like  cinnamon,  you  know.  I  thought  I'd  bluffed  Prospero 
into  doing  what  I  wanted,  and — I  don't  know — one  doesn't  ex- 
pect murder  and  suicide." 

Knowlton  rubbed  his  chin.  "Let's  hear  the  whole  yarn," 
he  said.  I  told  him  everything  that  had  happened  from  the 
time  he  left  me  that  night  until  I  lost  consciousness.  At 
the  end,  Knowlton  grinned:  "Ted,  the  Eagle  reporter  can  beat 
you  all  hollow  telling  that  story.  Wait  until  you  see  what  he 
says  happened.  But  he  didn't  know  about  the  wife  in  Cripple 
Creek — you've  scored  on  the  Eagle  there.  Now  take  a  little 
advice  from  me,  Ted.  The  next  time  you  try  to  blackmail  a 
paranoiac  because  he's  a  bigamist,  don't  do  it." 

"Blackmail  him?" 


150  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

"Well,  bluff  him,  then.  It's  about  the  same  thing.  You 
turn  those  jobs  over  to  me.  If  you  tried  to  commit  burglary 
some  one  would  pick  your  pocket  and  steal  your  jimmy." 

Dr.  Sinclair  interrupted  us  at  this  point.  "I  think  we've 
talked  business  long  enough  for  one  day.  It  makes  us  a  little 
feverish,  I  fear.  Just  a  moment;  we'll  have  a  look  at  our 
temperature,"  and  he  clicked  his  thermometer  into  my  jaws. 
Knowlton  both  winked  and  grinned  at  me. 

"I'll  send  the  new  chemist  up  to  see  you  in  a  couple  of  days, 
Ted.  Give  him  all  our  formulas  and  experiments  you  can  think 
of.     Good  luck!"  and  he  was  gone. 

Within  two  or  three  days  I  was  allowed  to  come  downstairs 
and  sit  at  the  big  living-room  window,  where  one  could  see  the 
sleighs  passing  up  and  down  Myrtle  Boulevard.  Helen,  with 
Leonidas  at  her  feet,  would  sit  beside  me,  and  we  read  or  talked 
or  kept  silent  as  the  fancy  seized  us.  Miss  Hershey  discreetly 
kept  in  the  library,  where  she  alternated  embroidering  with 
copious  letter-writing.  Her  correspondents  were  apparently 
endless,  for  fully  half  her  time  was  occupied  with  letters. 
Helen  and  I  used  to  try  to  guess  their  contents ;  once  we  found  a 
half  finished  one  on  the  library  table,  and  it  was  only  by  the 
exercise  of  the  strongest  will-power  that  we  resisted  the  temp- 
tation to  read  it.  The  handwriting  was  angular  and  large, 
sprawling  diagonally  across  the  page:  like  Miss  Hershey, 
it  was  conscious  of  its  excellent  social  connections.  Occa- 
sionally we  indulged  in  a  little  teasing  at  Miss  Hershey's  ex- 
pense, but  without  solving  the  mystery  of  her  correspondence. 
One  thing  we  did  that  horrified  her:  we  bought  a  scrap  book 
and  pasted  in  all  the  lurid  accounts  of  the  "tragedy"  col- 
lected from  the  pages  of  the  Eagle  and  Evening  Star.  Helen 
was  particularly  fond  of  the  passage  in  which  she  was  de- 
scribed as  nursing  "a  scion  of  the  English  nobility  back 
from  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow."  We  used  to  read  it  aloud 
to  Miss  Hershey  until  the  latter  protested  it  was  sacrilegious. 
There  was  also  a  beautiful  map  of  my  laboratory,  with  dot- 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  FUTURE   151 

ted  lines,  foot  prints,  and  two  crosses  to  show  where  Prospero 
and  I  were  found. 

We  also  had  some  correspondence  of  our  own  on  our 
hands.  There  was  my  family  to  write  to;  the  cable  had  al- 
ready informed  them  of  the  accident  and  my  recovery,  but  we 
had  to  tell  them  all  about  our  engagement  and  future  plans. 
Helen  was  shy  and  diffident  ahout  it,  nor  did  I  blame  her.  It 
was  no  easy  task  to  write  to  a  mother  and  sister  she  had  never 
seen.  She  studied  their  pictures  a  long  time  before  begin- 
ning and  asked  for  advice  often  as  she  wrote.  Then  she 
wouldn't  show  me  the  finished  letters,  and  we  almost  squab- 
bled over  it.  She  got  out  of  it  at  last  by  telling  me  that  some 
of  the  things  she  had  said  about  me  would  make  me  too  con- 
ceited. I  retaliated  by  refusing  to  let  her  see  my  letters.  All 
this  took  the  whole  of  a  happy  morning. 

Although  we  had  delayed  formal  announcement  of  our  en- 
gagement until  Mrs.  Claybourne's  return  at  Christmas,  all 
Deep  Harbor  knew  it,  thanks  to  the  Eagle,  and  every  day 
Helen's  friends  dropped  in  to  congratulate  us  and  give  us 
good  wishes.  Every  one  was  friendly  and  cordial;  I  felt  as 
if  the  town  had  adopted  me  and  now  counted  me  as  part  of  it. 
Even  the  Herr  Lieutenant  Ludwig  von  Oberhausen  made  a  call, 
stiffer  and  more  formal  than  ever,  as  the  importance  of  the  oc- 
casion demanded.  He  was  making  great  headway  with  the 
wealthy  Miss  Greyson,  and  it  was  rumoured  their  engagement 
would  be  announced  at  about  the  same  time  as  ours. 

Soon  the  doctor  gave  me  permission  to  go  out  in  the  after- 
noons for  a  short  walk;  Helen  and  I  went  back  and  forth  on 
Myrtle  Boulevard,  all  bundled  up  in  wraps  and  furs,  for 
nearly  every  day  now  a  screaming  north  wind  blew  off  the 
lake.  There  was  snow  on  the  ground,  several  inches  of  it, 
but  not  so  much,  Helen  said,  as  there  would  be  after  Christ- 
mas. The  cold  was  greater  than  any  I  had  ever  experienced, 
and  in  my  weakened  condition  I  felt  it  keenly.  On  some  days 
the  air  in  one's  lungs  was  almost  painful;  the  snow  under- 
foot squeaked  annoyingly  as  one  trod  upon  it.     Helen  throve 


152  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

on  these  sharp  days;  her  cheeks  glowed  with  a  rosy  tint,  and 
the  grey  of  her  eyes  took  on  new  depths  of  color  and  an 
added  sparkle.  I  liked  to  watch  an  escaped  lock  of  her 
brown  hair  blowing  across  her  face  as  I  walked  beside  her, 
or  to  see  the  radiant  health  shown  by  her  springing  step,  her 
quickly  aroused  laugh,  and  her  interest  in  everything  that  the 
earth  had  to  offer.  On  these  expeditions  Sir  Leonidas  de  la 
Patte  Jaune  was  our  delighted  escort.  Although  no  person 
passed  upon  the  street  without  turning  to  smile  at  his  un- 
couth appearance, — he  would  not  have  attracted  more  atten- 
tion if  he  had  been  a  hippogriff, — Sir  Leonidas's  happy 
spirit  was  irrepressible.  He  had  a  sniff  and  a  wag  for  all 
comers  and  an  abiding  faith  in  the  goodness  of  human  na- 
ture. Occasionally  we  dropped  in  to  return  calls,  stopping 
here  and  there  at  various  large  piles  of  rough  stone  with 
rounded  arches  which  comprised  the  architecture  of  Myrtle 
Boulevard's  newer  residences. 

On  one  gorgeous  sunshiny  afternoon,  when  the  breeze  from 
the  lake  was  like  iced  champagne,  Dr.  Sinclair  prescribed  a 
sleigh  ride,  on  condition  that  Helen  did  the  driving.  We  con- 
sulted by  telephone  my  old  friends  at  the  "livery  and  feed" 
stable,  with  the  result  that  they  delivered  at  our  front  door  a 
shiny  equipage  all  bells  and  fur.  It  was  my  first  experience 
with  a  sleigh,  and  I  was  much  amused  to  watch  Helen's  prep- 
arations. She  could  not  have  done  more  had  we  been 
planning  a  dash  for  the  Pole.  Hot  bricks  and  steamer  rugs 
were  merely  preliminaries.  I  was  tucked  in  like  a  baby 
and  wrapped  up  until  only  my  eyes  and  nose  were  left  visi- 
ble. All  having  been  done  to  her  satisfaction,  this  handsome 
young  lady  took  her  seat  beside  me,  and  we  were  off.  The 
motor-car  had  not  as  yet  become  such  a  common  experience 
as  to  deaden  us  for  all  lesser  forms  of  speed;  thus  it  was  that 
this  first  sleigh-ride  seemed  to  me  a  most  exhilarating  thing. 
The  low  seat  comparatively  close  to  the  ground,  and  the  ab- 
sence of  any  noise  save  for  the  bells,  did  much  to  increase  the 
illusion  of  rapid  motion.  No  wonder  Henry  Irving  had  been 
struck  with  the  dramatic  nature  of  sleigh  bells.     I  told  Helen 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  FUTURE   153 

about  that  strange  old  melodrama,  The  Bells,  as  we  whizzed 
along  our  favourite  Ridge  Road.  "We  shall  go  to  see  Irving 
together  in  it  next  year  when  we  are  in  London,  Ted,"  she 
whispered.  I  thrilled  with  delight,  as  I  always  did  when- 
ever Helen  referred  to  the  golden  future  we  were  to  share. 
We  were  intensely  happy  in  the  present,  yet  "next  year"  en- 
shrined everything  we  really  wanted;  we  looked  upon  our 
present,  happy  as  it  was,  as  something  of  a  hand-to-mouth 
existence.     Next  year  we  should  begin  to  live. 

"I  think  I  shall  take  some  courses  at  South  Kensington 
Museum,"  Helen  remarked  casually,  awakening  me  from  a 
dream  of  next  year. 

"South  Kensington — what  on  earth  do  you  know  about  it?" 

"I've  naturally  been  looking  up  a  few  things,  Ted  dear, 
about  the  city  where  I  am  to  spend  the  rest  of  my  life — " 

"Yes,  but  what  does  one  study  at  South  Kensington?" 

"I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Ted — particularly  when  you've  told 
me  about  the  theatre  things  to  be  seen  there — costumes 
and  pictures  and  all  the  Pre-Raphaelite  designs  for  furnish- 
ings. Well,  there  is  also  a  big  technical  school,  too,  and  I'm 
going  to  study  some  of  these  things.  I  want  to  be  useful, 
too." 

I  did  not  reply  immediately.  I  think  it  is  always  a  shock 
to  discover  that  the  woman  one  loves  has  a  practical  turn  of 
mind.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  the  woman  who  plans  life, 
although  the  man  is  not  always  aware  of  it. 

"Well,  Ted,  you  didn't  imagine  life  was  all  bread  and 
cheese  and  kisses,  did  you?"  she  broke  in  upon  me.  "Of 
course,  if  you  don't  want  me  to  study  the  things  you  really 
like,  I  won't." 

Woman's  illogical  relentless  logic  is  always  unanswerable. 

"I'm  sorry  you  took  me  by  surprise,  dear,"  I  apologized. 
"The  truth  is,  I  haven't  planned  our  life  very  definitely." 

"Then  don't  you  think  it  is  about  time  we  did?" 

I  noted  the  change  in  pronouns.  The  horse  slowed  down 
to  a  walk,  his  breath  drifting  back  from  his  nostrils  like 
smoke  from  a  dragon. 


154  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"I  suppose  we  should,"  I  admitted  a  little  reluctantly.  The 
practical  aspects  of  living  I  was  accustomed  to  think  con- 
cerned only  the  contents  of  my  laboratory.  Once  I  closed 
that  door  behind  me,  I  entered  another  world  where  no  prac- 
tical matters  were  ever  considered.  For  the  first  time  I  re- 
alized that  this  was  a  sign  of  weakness  of  character.  I  sat 
up  disturbed  at  this  latter  thought.  The  horse  zig-zagged 
across  the  road  at  will. 

"Chemistry  isn't  your  real  work,  Ted — it  never  will  be. 
You've  admitted  that  a  dozen  times." 

I  nodded. 

"Not  that  your  chemistry  isn't  good,  as  far  as  your  temper- 
ament will  allow  it  to  be,  but  there's  just  the  trouble.  It 
ties  you  to  a  business  routine  in  which  you'll  be  mediocre.  I 
don't  want  a  mediocre  husband,  Ted." 

"What  has  all  this  to  do  with  South  Kensington?"  I  que- 
ried, feeling  quite  uncomfortable.  There  was  a  determina- 
tion and  conviction  in  Helen's  tone  much  at  variance  with  the 
masculine  theory  of  the  clinging  vine. 

"While  we  earn  our  living  at  chemistry,  Ted  dear,  we  must 
get  ready  for  our  real  work.  That's  why  I'm  going  to  study 
at  South  Kensington." 

A  light  dawned  on  me.  Helen  was  going  to  help — to 
work  with  me!      I  was  so  happy  my  throat  hurt. 

"Some  day,  Ted,  you'll  write,  and  we'll  make  the  toy 
theatre  you've  told  me  about  real.  I  shall  be  able  to  help 
you,  for  I'll  learn  all  I  can  about  costumes  and  furniture 
and  scenery.  And  I'm  going  to  read  every  play  ever  writ- 
ten!" 

For  a  mile  we  rhapsodized  in  wild  enthusiasm,  building 
one  of  the  most  astonishingly  well-equipped  castles-in-Spain 
imaginable.  Apart  from  containing  the  neatest  little  country- 
house  and  garden,  it  had  also  a  laboratory  and  a  theatre 
which  was  to  be  the  world's  center  of  all  important  things 
dramatic.  We  didn't  forget  a  kennel  for  Sir  Leonidas  de  la 
Patte  Jaune.  Curiously  enough,  neither  of  us  thought  of  a 
nursery.     No  shadow  of  doubt  crossed  our  minds  that  every- 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  FUTURE   155 

thing  we  planned  would  be  realized.  We  had  such  faith  in 
each  other  we  were  certain  anything  we  wished  was  attainable. 
We  had  only  to  join  forces  to  make  the  world  bow  to  us.  It 
wasn't  conscious  conceit;  we  were  humble  in  our  happiness. 
There  were  many  things  in  the  world  which  needed  doing  and 
doing  well;  we  were  merely  planning  to  do  our  share.  We 
thought  of  it  all  as  our  duty  toward  life;  there  was  no  wish 
for  vainglory — no  longing  for  riches.  Indeed,  we  did 
already  know  enough  to  understand  that  the  things  we  were 
going  to  do  were  not  the  things  which  bring  wealth — at  least, 
that  it  was  not  the  easiest  road  to  financial  success.  Never- 
theless we  always  had  in  our  minds,  as  a  major  premise, 
sufficient  funds  for  our  purposes.  This  latter  assumption  it 
did  not  occur  to  us  to  analyse.  We  could  live  by  chemistry 
us  we  went  along. 

We  returned  home  to  find  Miss  Hershey  and  Mr.  Clay- 
bourne  awaiting  us  with  another  practical  discussion.  It  was 
necessary  formally  to  announce  our  engagement;  the  question 
of  marriage  was  to  be  a  subject  for  later  negotiations.  My 
illness  and  Helen's  care  of  me  had,  however,  rather  forced 
the  issue,  so  that  Mr.  Claybourne  thought  it  wise  to  recog- 
nize the  engagement.  Mrs.  Claybourne  was  returning  from 
Asheville  specially  on  this  account.  So  much  Mr.  Claybourne 
contributed.  Miss  Hershey  took  up  the  running  at  this  point: 
she  had  decided,  upon  consultation  with  Mr.  Claybourne,  to 
have  the  engagement  announced  at  a  dinner  party,  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  a  dance,  on  Christmas  eve  at  the  country  club. 
What  did  we  think  of  this  arrangement?  To  tell  the  honest 
truth,  we  neither  of  us,  as  we  confessed  when  alone,  cared  to 
be  the  centre  of  such  an  elaborate  show.  To  protest  was  un- 
gracious when  intentions  were  so  excellent;  with  much  forc- 
ing of  our  dispositions  we  appeared  delighted.  Miss  Her- 
shey carried  off  Helen  to  make  a  list  of  guests ;  Mr.  Claybourne 
took  me  into  the  library.  We  sat  down,  I  in  my  usual  trepida- 
tion when  confronted  with  practical  details. 

"I  have  had  a  letter  from  your  father,  Edward,"  he  began, 
taking  out  a  familiar  envelope.     I  was  surprised,  for  as  yet  I 


156  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

had  received  only  a  cable  of  good  wishes.  "He  appears 
pleased  with  the  step  you  have  taken."  I  bent  my  face  into  a 
smile.  "I  have  been  just  a  trifle  uneasy  for  fear  that  his  dis- 
approval might  affect  your  future.  He  is,  on  the  contrary, 
ready  to  do  what  he  can  to  assist." 

This  time  I  really  smiled — not  that  I  had  had  any  doubt, 
but  it  was  pleasant  to  learn  of  my  father's  absolute  trust  in  me. 

"He  is  not  too  encouraging  over  finances,  but  seems  to  think 
he  can  give  you  employment  that  will  enable  you  to  take  care 
of  Helen — and  of  any  addition." 

"Addition?"  I  asked,  puzzled.  Mr.  Claybourne  looked  at 
me  over  the  rims  of  his  glasses,  and  tapped  his  letter  on  the 
corner  of  the  table. 

"I  assume  that  young  married  people  usually  have  addi- 
tions to  their  family,"  he  said.     I  blushed  furiously. 

"Ye-yes,"  I  murmured  feebly.     "I  hadn't  thought  of  that." 

"I  sometimes  wonder,  Edward,  if  you  and  Helen  think  of 
any  one  but  yourselves,"  he  said,  gazing  out  the  window.  I 
was  stung  by  this  rebuke,  perhaps  because  its  truth  struck  me 
forcibly.  "But  I  am  not  surprised;  it  is  entirely  natural  for 
young  people  to  be  selfish — "  I  made  a  gesture  of  protest, 
which  he  ignored.  "They  think  they  can  make  the  world  over 
in  their  own  image.  Sometimes  they  forget  the  world  has 
been  in  business  longer  than  they  have.  The  point  is,  how- 
ever, that  in  being  selfish  together  you  mustn't  be  selfish  to 
each  other.  I  am  glad  neither  of  you  have  much  money,  but 
I  also  want  Helen  to  be  comfortable.  That,  I  conclude  from 
your  father's  letter,  will  be  the  case.  The  less  you  have, 
down  to  a  certain  point,  the  harder  you  will  work  for  each 
other.     Have  you  anything  to  say,  Edward?" 

I  thought,  but  no  ideas  occurred  to  me.  I  looked  around 
uneasily,  wishing  Helen  were  there  to  back  me  up. 

"I  notice,  Edward,  that  you  have  already  formed  the  habit 
of  leaning  on  Helen's  decisions.  I  admit  that  she  is  a  young 
woman  with  force  of  character  beyond  her  years."  He  smiled 
slightly,  with  a  reminiscent  air.  "I'm  not  always  immune 
myself;  your  engagement  is  proof  of  that,"  he  laughed.     "But 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  FUTURE   157 

I  am  telling  you  this  for  your  good,  Ted.  Be  your  own  boss ; 
Helen  will  respect  you  all  the  more,  and  so  will  I.  Besides, 
Edward,  it's  a  pretty  important  element  in  success  in  life." 

Again  no  suitable  reply  from  me  was  forthcoming.  This 
rather  plain  hint  about  "success  in  life"  fitted  with  the  weak- 
ness-of-character  theory  that  had  come  to  me  upon  the  Ridge 
Road  earlier  in  the  afternoon.  I  wondered  how  true  it  was. 
If  true,  was  it  curable?  Mr.  Claybourne  seemed  to  be  wait- 
ing, for  I  heard  him  cough.  Helen  saved  the  situation  by 
coming  in  and  sitting  on  the  arm  of  my  chair. 

"What  have  you  been  saying  to  Ted,  dad?" 

"One  or  two  things  he  ought  to  know,  my  daughter,"  Mr. 
Claybourne  replied  gravely. 

"That's  an  awfully  unfair  advantage  to  take  of  any  one, 
dad.  Of  course  Ted  didn't  know  what  to  say  back  to  you?" 
she  teased,  rumpling  my  hair. 

"You  are  both  two  ignorant  young  fools,"  Mr.  Claybourne 
exploded  ungrammatically. 

"What  else  do  you  expect  us  to  be,  dad?  Besides,  according 
to  Mr.  Pope's  famous  line,  it  would  be  silly  of  us  to  be  any- 
thing else.  Look  it  up,  dad,  in  your  Bartlett's  Familiar.  Quota- 
tions." 

Mr.  Claybourne  chewed  the  end  off  a  fresh  cigar,  obviously 
in  a  bad  humour. 

"Well,  Helen,  all  I  can  say  is  that  I  hope  the  world  won't 
give  you  too  hard  a  knock,  when  it  decides  to  take  the-  conceit 
out  of  you.  Other  people  have  been  in  love  before,"  he  added 
with  what  I  thought  was  irrelevance. 

"Of  course  they  have,  dad  dear.  But  not  just  like  Ted  and 
me. 

Mr.  Claybourne  uttered  a  pardonable  snort. 

"As  long  as  we  have  each  other,  nothing  can  happen  to 
either  of  us,"  Helen  said  simply,  in  a  tone  that  made  me  grip 
her  arm  tightly. 

"As  long  as — "  Mr.  Claybourne  said  slowly  to  himself  with- 
out finishing  the  sentence.  A  boy  stopped  outside  the  window 
and  lit  the  street  lamp.     The  room  was  growing  dark,  and  a 


158  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

new  moon  was  just  visible  above  the  opposite  roof.  There 
was  a  long  silence,  during  which  Mr.  Claybourne  puffed  at 
his  cigar. 

"Why,  what  a  gloom  you  are,  dad,  trying  to  frighten  us  out 
of  our  happiness  with  all  your  pessimistic  grown-up  ideas," 
Helen  cried,  flinging  her  arms  impulsively  about  him,  knock- 
ing the  ash  off  his  cigar,  and  seriously  deranging  his  dignity. 
Nevertheless  he  patted  his  daughter  on  the  back  and  was  se« 
cretly  much  pleased. 

"Well,  little  girl,"  he  smiled,  "getting  'round  your  old  dad 
just  as  you  always  do,"  and  he  kissed  her. 

"Of  course!"  she  laughed.     "That's  what  dads  are  for." 

Even  Miss  Hershey's  meticulously  exact  explanation,  at 
dinner,  of  how  the  lists  of  guests  for  the  engagement  dinner 
and  dance  had  been  selected,  together  with  much  family  his- 
tory  of  the  individuals,  could  not  drive  away  the  fit  of  de» 
pression  the  afternoon  had  brought  me.  I  had  really  never 
thought  of  the  future  as  something  to  be  approached  with 
dread  and  suspicion;  it  had  always  seemed  sufficient  to  blun- 
der into  it  gaily  and  unquestioningly.  I  had  never  doubted  it 
could  be  other  than  pleasant.  Forethought  could  always 
prevent  tragedies.  .  .  .  Could  it?  If  one  knew  what  tragedy 
to  expect — yes;  how  if  there  were  tragedies  that  crept  upon 
one  unawares?  What  was  it  the  Bible  said  about  "a  thief  in 
the  night"?  It  was  the  old  peril  of  too  much  happiness.  The 
whole  world  was  enthralled  to  this  superstition  and  called  its 
childish  fears  "commonsense  precaution."  With  this  fairly 
satisfactory  and  optimistic  solution  I  finally  went  to  bed. 

A  week  before  the  dinner  dance  Mrs.  Claybourne  returned, 
quite  limp  from  her  journey  in  a  Pullman  and  the  onward  rush 
of  events  at  home.  She  felt  utterly  discouraged,  she  said,  at 
the  hopelessness  of  it  all,  and  the  general  lack  of  consideration. 
Helen  and  I  were  made  to  feel  like  criminals  detected  in  the 
midst  of  some  clandestine  crime.  Helen  had  to  have  a  new 
evening  gown  and  an  afternoon  dress;  she  ought  really  to  have 
a  new  set  of  furs,  but  that  was  out  of  the  question,  because  of 


FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  FUTURE   159 

the  terrible  expense  of  the  dance.  Miss  Hershey  clicked  and 
oozed  sympathy  from  the  background.  Mr.  Claybourne  put  a 
stop  to  his  wife's  beating  of  her  breast  by  ordering  Helen  and 
her  mother  to  New  York  to  get  everything  needed. 

"You  can  send  the  bills  to  me,  and  I'll  do  the  worrying  up 
at  the  office,"  he  finished. 

"I  think  I'll  go  along  and  do  my  shopping  in  New  York, 
too,"  I  put  in,  without  pausing  to  think.  This  produced  a 
renewed  outburst.  It  wasn't  proper,  was  the  sum  and  sub- 
stance. 

"I've  got  something  important  to  do  in  New  York,"  I  con- 
tended stubbornly.     "Helen  has  to  have  an  engagement  ring." 

Helen  and  her  father  took  my  part.  It  was  better,  he 
thought,  for  some  one  to  go  along  who  could  look  after  the 
party  and  keep  Helen  amused.  Helen  simply  remarked  that 
the  idea  I  was  not  to  go  was  preposterous.  Besides,  the 
change  would  do  me  good.  I  would  come  back  refreshed  and 
ready  to  resume  work.  Mrs.  Claybourne  yielded,  after  first 
fleeing  to  her  room  in  tears.     It  was  settled  I  was  to  go  along. 


Chapter  Ten 
we   share   our  first   christmas 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  was  only  three  days  away,  bringing 
with  it  the  formal  announcement  of  our  engagement. 
I  received  several  letters  from  my  father,  as  well  as 
from  my  mother  and  sister.  They  accepted  the  situation,  but 
I  knew  the  family  well  enough  to  detect  considerable  un- 
easiness between  the  lines.  My  mother  was  once  or  twice 
frankly  doubtful.  Did  I  know  America  well  enough  to  choose 
the  right  type? — a  question-  which  made  me  smile,  as  I 
thought  of  Helen.  My.  sister  asked  even  more  feminine  ques- 
tions. What  was  Helen  like?  Was  she  fond  of  sports?  A 
good  sort?  Or  was  she  very  serious-minded,  like  so  many 
Americans?  My  sister,  who  was  much  younger  than  myself, 
had  been  born  in  England  and  had  never  set  foot  in  America. 
I  felt  a  certain  difficulty  in  explaining  Helen  to  her,  although  I 
had  no  doubt  the  two  girls  would  be  good  pals  on  sight.  My 
father  was  not  so  disconcerting;  yet  there  was  also  an  under- 
current of  doubt  and  displeasure  in  his  comments.  Nothing 
but  taking  Helen  to  England  and  displaying  her  there  would 
really  straighten  this  out,  I  concluded. 

Meanwhile  I  concealed  all  this  from  Helen.  The  family 
wrote  her  cordial  and  welcoming  letters.  We  were  busy  with 
our  preparations,  and  the  factory  was  also  an  inescapable 
task.  Knowlton  was  remorseless.  I  received  no  special 
favours  at  his  hands  in  the  way  of  extra  time  off.  After  I  had 
quite  recovered  from  my  part  in  Prospero's  tragic  melodrama, 
the  grindstone  was  held  to  my  nose  again.  The  young  people 
of  Deep  Harbor,  particularly  the  girls,  took  an  absorbing  in- 
terest in  Helen  and  me.  It  was  all  so  romantic,  they  said — 
the  horseback  riding,  the  attempt  to  murder  me,  and  our  re- 

160 


OUR   FIRST   CHRISTMAS  161 

solution  to  go  abroad.  "It  is  such  a  consolation  for  you,  my 
dear,"  a  delicious  old  lady  said  to  Helen,  "that  you  are  going 
to  live  in  England,  for  you  will  always  have  your  own  church 
wherever  you  go." 

Mr.  Claybourne,  having  reached  his  decision,  apparently 
more  or  less  dismissed  us  from  his  mind  as  much  as  was  pos- 
sible. I  dined  on  Sundays  at  the  house  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Mrs.  Claybourne  kept  up  her  wailing,  as  was  natural  to  her 
temperament.  I  think  she  enjoyed  having  a  standing  griev- 
ance. It  saved  her  the  trouble  of  inventing  a  fresh  one  each 
day.  When  friends  dropped  in  to  talk  matters  over,  a  pastime 
to  which  Deep  Harbor  was  much  addicted,  she  would  burst  in- 
to tears  at  each  mention  of  the  word  "England."  What  would 
become  of  her,  with  her  only  daughter  over  four  thousand 
miles  away,  she  did  not  know.  But  of  course  no  one  in  the 
house  had  any  consideration  for  her  feelings,  she  would  go  on 
to  explain — least  of  all  her  own  daughter,  who  seemed  actually 
to  be  looking  forward  to  the  separation.  This  was  not  fair  to 
Helen,  who  loved  her  father  with  a  passionate  devotion  and 
was  sympathetically  affectionate  toward  her  mother.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  there  were  times  when  Helen  minded  the 
thought  of  leaving  her  family  a  great  deal,  and  I  had,  upon 
those  occasions,  to  paint  the  future  in  the  brightest  possible 
colours.  Not  that  Helen  doubted  for  an  instant  the  love  which 
had  governed  our  choice.  It  was  the  natural  reaction  of  a 
young  girl  not  yet  out  of  her  teens  to  the  realization  that  her 
new  and  unknown  life  to  come  would  mean  the  breaking  of  all 
her  old  ties.  She  felt  it  more  than  even  her  father  or  her 
mother  seemed  to  guess. 

In  the  evening  we  read  aloud,  a  rather  sober  occupation  for 
two  young  lovers.  Helen  was  eager  to  know  the  books  I  liked, 
and  I  to  know  hers,  while  together  we  explored  new  fields  and 
made  them  our  own.  We  were  given  the  back  drawing  room 
to  ourselves,  and  there,  before  a  natural  gas  fire,  which  was  the 
usual  Deep  Harbor  translation  of  the  Yule  log,  we  would  sit 
on  a  little  sofa,  Helen  with  her  feet  tucked  up  under  her  and 
her  head  on  my  shoulder,  while  I  read.     We  read  hardly  any 


162  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

slush  and  but  little  romance,  for  of  the  latter  we  had  now 
enough  of  our  own.  We  were  too  young  and  eager  to  be  at. 
life  to  have  any  patience  with  slush.  We  did  not  know  its 
value  as  an  anodyne,  for  we  had  no  need  of  anaesthetics  of 
any  kind.  We  wanted  to  get  into  life  as  quickly  as  possible 
and  fashion  it  to  suit  ourselves.  We  were  therefore  more  in- 
terested in  Ibsen  and  Shaw,  in  Hauptmann  and  Nietzsche,  in 
William  Morris  and  Anatole  France,  than  in  the  current 
novels  from  the  circulating  library. 

I  don't  think  we  were  priggish  in  our  seriousness.  We  kept 
our  reading  to  ourselves  and  never  spoke  of  it  to  others.  Wft 
looked  upon  it  as  necessary  preparatory  study  before  embark- 
ing together  upon  our  future.  We  wanted  to  know,  as  far  a?i 
we  had  time  to  learn,  what  writers  and  thinkers  had  to  say 
about  this  world  that  seemed  so  beautiful  to  us.  When  thev 
were  bitter,  hard,  or  cynical,  we  laughed  and  pitied  them.  Bu  I 
most  of  all  we  enjoyed  the  new  vistas  they  revealed,  and  neither 
Anatole  France  nor  Nietzsche  frightened  us  one  bit.  We 
looked  upon  a  great  man's  mind  as  something  independent  of 
his  experience.  That  he  said  life  was  cruel  did  not  to  us  imply 
anything  further  than  an  interesting  point  of  view  which  it  was 
good  fun  to  discuss.  We  felt  sure  that  William  Morris  was 
right  and  the  others  wrong.  We  laughed  over  Shaw  because 
we  could  feel  him  striking  into  Deep  Harbor's  vitals — and  it 
amused  us,  knowing  Deep  Harbor,  to  see  the  skill  with  which 
he  did  it  and  the  latter's  blissful  unconcern.  The  Deep  Har- 
bor Eagle  ran  a  leader  one  morning  to  prove  Shaw  a  clown 
and  a  mountebank.  We  were  tempted  to  cut  it  out  and  send 
it  to  Shaw,  but  we  didn't  know  his  address. 

On  Christmas  eve  was  to  be  our  dinner  and  dance  at  the 
country  club.  The  country  club  was  situated  several  miles 
out  of  town  upon  the  lake  shore.  It  was  a  large  wooden 
building  of  "Colonial"  architecture,  which  means  that  it  had  a 
broad  verandah,  facing  the  lake,  with  high  wooden  columns  in 
front,  walls  covered  with  white  shingles,  and  shutters  painted 
green.     You  drove  out  via  the  west  lake  road.     Its  member  ■ 


OUR   FIRST   CHRISTMAS  163 

ship  was  rigidly  limited  to  four  hundred,  and  the  dues  were 
absurdly  high.  Only  the  financially  elite  could  afford  to 
belong  and  play  upon  its  tame  nine-hole  course.  It  boasted 
a  waiting  list  of  over  a  hundred  names.  Sons  were  put  down 
for  it  before  going  away  to  college,  in  the  hope  that  they  would 
be  elected  by  the  time  they  had  graduated.  All  the  important 
social  functions  of  Deep  Harbor  took  place  there,  and  some, 
if  gossip  were  true,  not  quite  so  decorous  as  these. 

It  was  Miss  Hershey,  the  professional  chaperone,  who  had 
decided  upon  the  country  club  as  the  only  suitable  rostrum 
from  which  to  announce  our  engagement.  The  dinner  party 
was  to  be  a  small  one,  not  over  twenty  couples,  and  the  other 
young  people  were  to  come  in  later  for  the  dance.  The  flowers 
were  ordered  from  Buffalo  and  the  music  from  Detroit.  The 
chef  of  the  country  club  was  to  procure,  by  means  best  known 
to  himself,  partridges,  and  a  professional  caterer  was  to  fur- 
nish the  ice-cream.  All  this  Miss  Hershey  was  responsible  for. 
She  took  charge  of  all  arrangements,  and  Mr.  Claybourne,  who 
was  a  sensible  man  and  hated  display,  had  not  a  word  to  say. 
Least  of  all  were  Helen  and  I  allowed  to  interfere. 

At  six  on  the  appointed  day  I  reported  at  the  Claybourne 
residence  on  Myrtle  Boulevard  in  full  regalia,  but  withal  a 
curious  dryness  in  my  throat.  Knowlton  had  dropped  in  to 
grin  at  me  while  I  dressed,  and  he  had  completed  my  nervous- 
ness. "To  speak  your  own  language,"  he  had  said,  as  I  made 
ready  to  leave,  "what  price  Deep  Harbor,  now,  old  thing?" 
Knowlton  was  coming  to  the  dance;  Miss  Hershey  had  crossed 
his  name  off  the  dinner  list. 

"Go  to  hell,  Knowlton,"  I  replied,  slamming  the  door.  I 
could  feel  his  grin  following  me  through  the  panels  all  the 
way  downstairs. 

At  the  Claybournes'  I  found  Mrs.  Claybourne  collapsed  in 
tears  upon  the  sofa,  now  that  she  was  to  face  the  casting  of  the 
die,  and  Mr.  Claybourne  bending  over  her  trying  to  coax  her 
to  drink  a  cocktail  which  he  held  in  one  hand.  Still  protesting 
that  alcohol  always  gave  her  a  sick  headache,  she  finally  drank 
it  with  what  I  thought  rather  practised  skill.     Meanwhile  Mr. 


164  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

Claybourne  made  violent  signs  at  me  to  efface  myself,  which  I 
did  by  retreating  to  the  back  of  the  passage  until  Helen  should 
come  down.  Miss  Hershey  was  out  at  the  country  club  putting 
the  finishing  touches  to  the  table. 

Helen  appeared  at  last,  in  a  really  grown-up  evening  gown, 
a  bunch  of  Parma  violets  pinned  to  her  bodice.  My  eyes  swam 
a  bit  as  I  went  forward  to  meet  her,  and  my  legs  were  most 
unsteady. 

"Lady  Grey  Eyes,"  I  stammered,  and  clung  to  her  hand. 
She  was  much  more  composed  than  I.  Save  for  the  bright 
light  that  danced  and  sparkled  in  her  eyes,  she  might  have  gone 
through  a  hundred  such  affairs. 

"Look,  Ted,"  she  whispered.  Behind  her  came  Leonidas, 
new  washed  and  with  a  small  bunch  of  violets  tied  by  a  blue 
ribbon  to  his  collar.  Leonidas  sat  down  and  tried  to  remove 
the  violets  with  his  paws.     We  both  laughed. 

"Is  he  going?"  I  asked. 

"Of  course  not,  you  dear  idiot,"  Helen  replied.  "But  I  had 
to  dress  him  up  for  the  occasion." 

At  that  moment  a  carriage  arrived  containing  Miss  Hemphill 
and  her  escort,  and  into  this  Mr.  Claybourne  bundled  Helen 
and  me.  He  would  follow  with  Mrs.  Claybourne  later.  The 
ride  out  to  the  country  club  was  cold  and  long.  The  roads 
were  partly  frozen  and  partly  covered  with  snow.  We  bumped 
in  and  out  of  ruts  and  the  horses  steamed.  Inside,  however, 
we  were  all  giggles  and  laughter.  Miss  Hemphill  and  her 
young  man,  a  clerk  in  the  Deep  Harbor  Smelting  Company, 
teased  us,  until  we  reached  the  club,  with  well  meant  but  rather 
elephantine  wit. 

Soon  after  we  got  there  the  whole  dinner  party  arrived,  and 
we  sat  down  in  a  deafening  uproar  of  shrill  conversation  and 
laughter.  The  crowd  was  composed  entirely,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Claybourne,  of  young  friends  of  Helen's. 
I  was  the  only  non-Deep  Harborite  present.  It  seemed  a  little 
queer,  and  once  or  twice  I  thought  of  my  father  and  wondered 
what  he  was  thinking.  Was  I  really  doing  the  thing  he  would 
approve?     Then  I  would  look  at  Helen,  and  reassurance  would 


OUR   FIRST   CHRISTMAS  165 

return.  No  one  could  possibly  disapprove  of  her.  The  family 
would  be  thankful  I  had  been  so  lucky.  Indeed,  my  luck  was 
a  constant  source  of  wonder  to  me.  How  on  earth  was  it  pos- 
sible that  Helen  should  love  me?  It  was  beyond  reasoning 
out.  And  as  I  pondered  this  miracle,  I  could  feel  Helen's 
hand  steal  under  the  tablecloth  and  give  mine  a  gentle  touch. 
It  was  true,  then.  Once  we  were  caught  at  this,  by  the  young 
man  on  the  other  side  of  Helen,  and  a  great  to-do  of  laughter 
and  teasing  followed.  I  was  horribly  embarrassed  that  I  had 
put  Helen  in  such  a  predicament,  and  a  little  angry,  but  she 
didn't  seem  to  mind  the  noise  at  all.  How  they  could  talk, 
those  young  people!  The  girls  seemed  to  be  screaming,  so 
sharp  and  shrill  were  their  voices;  my  ears  ached.  Every  one 
spoke  at  once,  at  the  topmost  pitch,  and  no  one  listened  for  a 
reply.  I  have  no  idea  what  it  was  all  about,  for  I  was  in  such 
a  daze  I  could  neither  eat  nor  make  out  what  was  being  said. 
Once  or  twice  Helen  said:  "Steady,  Ted.  Try  to  look  cheer- 
ful," and  I  would  pull  myself  together  with  a  smile  at  her  and 
venture  a  remark. 

After  dinner  the  pandemonium  increased  with  the  arrival  of 
those  invited  to  the  dance.  The  orchestra  played  dance  music 
at  what  I  should  have  thought  an  incredible  speed.  I  blun- 
dered badly  in  dancing  and  left  bruises,  I  fear,  on  more  than 
one  dainty  instep.  I  was  at  home  only  when  I  danced  with 
Helen,  but  Miss  Hershey's  etiquette  forbade  that  this  should  be 
very  often.  As  hostess  Helen  had  to  dance  with  as  many  of  the 
young  men  as  possible.  Sometimes  I  lurked  gloomy  in  a  cor- 
ner, disliking  the  public  display  of  Helen  that  the  party  im- 
plied. Each  time  Miss  Hershey's  watchful  eye  would  ferret  me 
out,  and  I  would  be  handed  over  to  another  young  creature. 

Dancing  in  Deep  Harbor  was  a  skilful  art.  The  young  peo- 
ple of  the  town  approved  or  condemned  newcomers  according 
to  the  measure  of  their  proficiency  on  the  polished  floor. 
Never  did  any  one  earn  more  deservedly  a  reputation  as  an  ex- 
ecrable dancer  than  I  did  that  evening.  Some  of  my  partners, 
I  could  see,  frankly  pitied  Helen.  In  Deep  Harbor,  to  marry 
a  man  who  could  not  dance,  or  was  a  bad  dancer,  was  to  hang 


166  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

a  social  old-man-of-the-sea  about  one's  neck.  It  doomed  all 
"good  times"  as  far  as  that  couple  were  concerned.  Hence  the 
genuine  pity  which  I  saw  in  the  eyes  of  some  of  Helen's  friends. 

A  respite  came  when  Knowlton  appeared.  After  he  had 
danced  with  Helen,  I  took  him  around  and  introduced  him  to  as 
many  young  ladies  as  I  was  able  to  identify.  Miss  Hershey 
helped  me  out  with  a  few  names,  although  I  was  supposed  to 
know  them  all.  Knowlton's  eyes  twinkled,  and  the  crows'  feet 
at  their  corners  were  crinkled  with  restrained  amusement  as  I 
took  him  through  the  ceremonies  of  introduction.  We  escaped 
for  a  few  moments  for  a  cigarette  in  the  sun-parlour,  a  portion 
of  the  verandah  enclosed  with  glass  in  the  winter  time. 

"Well,  Ted,"  he  grinned  at  his  cigarette,  "I  certainly  have  to 
laugh  when  I  think  of  you  doing  the  social  honours  for  me  in 
Deep  Harbor.  I  have  to  hand  it  to  you,  Ted,  and  I  mean  this 
seriously.  Miss  Claybourne's  the  best  of  the  bunch.  She's  an 
A-number-one  winner,  and  you  are  a  damned  lucky  kid." 

"Thanks,  Knowlton;  I  agree  with  you." 

Knowlton  puffed  his  cigarette  reflectively.  "It's  great  to  be 
a  kid,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  never  was,"  he  added  rather  un- 
expectedly. "When  I  ought  to  have  been,  I  was  selling  goods 
and  studying  to  be  an  engineer,  evenings.  I'm  not  kicking;  I 
guess  I  had  a  pretty  good  time — even  when  I  didn't  know 
where  the  next  meal  was  coming  from." 

I  was  silent,  for  it  was  most  unusual  for  Knowlton  to  wax 
confidential  about  himself. 

"But  now  that  things  are  beginning  to  come  my  way,  I  see 
a  little  what  I've  missed.  I'm  getting  grey  here  over  the  tem- 
ples, Ted,  and  I'm  doggoned  if  I  don't  envy  you,"  he  finished 
with  queer  irrelevance.  We  both  smoked  in  silence.  It  is  a 
difficult  matter  for  two  men  to  say  what  is  on  their  minds.  I 
liked  Knowlton,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  him  I  did,  but  I  didn't 
dare  try  for  the  words. 

"I  guess  we  are  none  of  us,  Ted,"  he  went  on,  "as  practical 
and  hard-headed  as  we  make  ourselves  out  to  be.  I  used  to 
think  I  had  no  time  to  bother  with  women." 


OUR   FIRST   CHRISTMAS  167 

"He  travels  furthest  who  travels  alone,"  I  murmured,  rather 
startled  by  such  a  quotation  on  such  an  evening. 

"It's  a  mistake,  Ted,"  Knowlton  came  back.  "It  isn't  true. 
The  fellow  who  said  that  was  trying  to  conceal  bankruptcy 
with  a  little  window-dressing." 

"Knowlton,"  I  stammered,  making  a  desperate  effort,  "J — 
I—" 

He  cut  in  on  me.  "Thanks,  Ted.  I  like  you  too.  Let's  let 
it  go  at  that,"  and  he  threw  away  his  cigarette  stub  and  went  in 
to  the  ballroom.  I  sat  and  wondered  at  the  hint  of  tragedy 
the  always  smiling  Knowlton  had  shown  me.  "After  all,"  I 
reflected,  "he  is  still  young."  "Ah,  but  he  is  not  a  kid,  don't 
you  see?"  my  old  annoyer  Reason  interjected.  "That's  the 
point."  I  lit  another  cigarette.  "I  wonder  why  it  is  great  to 
be  a  kid?"  I  asked.  Reason  was  prompt  with  a  reply, 
"Because  kids  enjoy  everything  without  stopping  to  think." 

I  looked  up,  to  see  Helen  in  the  doorway,  surrounded  by 
formally  attentive  swains. 

"Ted,"  said  Helen  coming  up  to  me.  "This  is  our  dance. 
How  could  you?" 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  been  conscious  of  hurting 
her,  and  I  was  truly  contrite.  I  explained  about  Knowlton  as 
we  danced  around  the  room. 

"The  poor  old  dear,"  said  Helen.  "You  would  never  guess 
it  from  those  adorable  crow's  feet  of  his." 

"Knowlton  isn't  old,"  I  objected,  almost  shocked. 

"Well,"  Helen  went  on,  "he's  almost  middle-aged." 

But  we  soon  changed  the  subject,  for  we  had  more  important 
things  to  talk  about. 

The  dance  came  to  an  end  at  last,  since  there  is  a  limit  to  the 
physical  endurance  of  even  the  youth  of  Deep  Harbor.  I  was 
fagged,  and,  now  the  excitement  had  passed,  there  were  deep 
circles  under  Helen's  eyes.  "Take  me  home,  Ted,"  she  whis- 
pered, and  with  infinite  craft  and  skill,  we  eluded  Miss  Her- 
shey  and  got  a  carriage  to  ourselves. 

We  sat  for  a  long  time  in  silence,  as  we  bounced  over  the 
ruts,  her  hand  resting  in  mine. 


168  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"It  is  Christmas  day,  dearest,"  I  bent  over  her  and  said. 
She  looked  into  my  eyes. 

"Our  first  Christmas  together,  Ted.  How  many  will  there 
he?"  Suddenly  there  came  a  little  catch  in  her  voice,  and  she 
cried  against  my  shoulder,  as  if  frightened.  I  comforted  her, 
and  she  again  looked  up,  a  smile  coming  through  wet  eyes. 

"Christmas.     We'll  never  forget,  will  we  Ted?" 

We  looked  out  at  the  arc  lamps  of  Deep  Harbor  ahead.  On 
the  left,  the  frozen,  snow-covered  lake  looked  like  some  strange 
continent  of  the  moon  in  the  glowing  light.  The  fields  and 
vineyards  were  dimly  white,  with  dark  patches  showing.  The 
snow  had  been  thinned  by  a  thaw.  We  looked  together,  now 
ahead,  now  left,  now  right,  that  we  might  impress  the  scene  on 
our  memories  forevermore.  It  was  very  still  save  for  the 
rattle  of  the  carriage  and  the  occasional  voice  of  the  driver 
speaking  to  his  horses.  Far  on  the  other  side  of  the  town  the 
flare  of  a  Bessemer  steel  works  suddenly  lit  up  the  sky,  for  its 
furnaces  never  rested,  day  or  night. 

I  kissed  her  good-night  at  her  door  and  walked  down  Myrtle 
Boulevard,  in  the  dawn,  alone.  At  my  rooms  I  found  a  letter 
from  my  father,  together  with  a  generous  check.  "Buy  Helen 
a  Christmas  present  out  of  this,"  was  his  only  comment  on 
sending  me  the  money.  I  could  not  sleep,  but  the  factory  was 
to  be  shut  down  on  Christmas  Day,  so  the  loss  of  sleep  did  not 
matter.  The  future  stood  before  me  like  an  impenetrable  wall. 
I  wanted  to  see  the  other  side.  It  seemed  absurd,  preposterous, 
that  one  couldn't  fathom  that  mystery.  It  was  not  fair  to 
make  one  face  life  without  knowing  what  to  expect.  Of  what 
use  were  hopes  or  plans,  if  out  of  that  void  some  unforeseen 
thing  struck  at  one?  Yet  fear,  I  knew,  was  more  deadly  than 
any  blow  that  could  come  from  the  dark.  One  must  grope 
ahead,  like  a  child  going  into  a  cellar,  but  if  one  feared  the 
dark,  then  the  thing  would  become  intolerable.  It  would  add 
terrors  that  were  not  there  and  deprive  one  of  the  power  to 
deal  with  the  things  that  were. 

What  was  it  Helen  had  asked?  How  many  Christmas  days 
would  there  be  for  us?     Granting  three  score  and  ten  as  the 


OUR   FIRST   CHRISTMAS  169 

limit,  there  should  be  not  less  than  fifty  such  days.  Fifty  times 
to  remember  all  that  today  meant  to  us.  "I  wonder  why  most 
stories  stop  when  they  are  married?"  I  asked  myself.  "Don't 
they  dare  tell  the  rest  of  it?"  Reason  refused  to  make  any 
comment,  for  Reason,  too,  was  baffled  by  that  mystery  of  the 
future. 


Christmas  dinner  was  a  solemn  family  function  held  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Besides  Helen,  Mrs.  Claybourne,  Mr. 
Claybourne,  and  me,  there  were  Helen's  Uncle  Peter,  from 
Dayton,  Ohio,  and  his  wife.  Uncle  Peter  and  Aunt  Ethel  had 
come  to  Deep  Harbor  with  a  double  motive — to  spend  Christ- 
mas and  to  inspect  the  potential  nephew-in-law.  Uncle  Peter 
was  affable  and  jocose,  slightly  older  than  his  brother,  Mr. 
Claybourne,  but  similar  in  type.  He  had  not  quite  the  same 
force  of  character  or  skill  in  business,  I  decided  after  hearing 
one  of  his  anecdotes.  Anecdotes  are  a  sore  betrayer  of  man's 
mental  make-up.  They  should  be  told  only  by  persons  who 
have  nothing  to  fear  from  self-revelation.  Aunt  Ethel  was  a 
woman  of  firmness  and  impregnable  self-complacency.  "In 
Dayton  we — "  was  her  regular  introduction  to  the  simplest 
statement.  She  wore  gold-bowed  invisible  glasses  and  had 
pastry-coloured  hair.  Of  the  two  I  immediately  plumped  for 
Uncle  Peter  and  his  anecdotes.  They  were  more  reassuring 
than  Aunt  Ethel's  views  upon  conduct. 

Mrs.  Claybourne  had  marvellously  recovered  from  the  day 
before.  She  was  in  a  mood  as  closely  approximating  the 
cheerful  as  one  could  expect.  In  fact,  I  had  never  before  seen 
her  thus  close  to  having  a  good  time.  The  shortcomings  of 
Jane,  the  maid,  seemed  the  only  flies  in  her  ointment.  These 
were  gone  over  rather  thoroughly  with  Aunt  Ethel,  but  were 
mostly  out  of  the  way  by  the  time  we  sat  down  to  dinner.  Ac- 
cording to  Helen,  Jane  was  a  treasure  who  survived  endless 
faultfinding  and  nagging  with  the  patience  of  a  saint;  in  Mrs. 
Claybourne's  account,  she  was  a  wilful  conspirator  against  the 
tidiness,  peace,  and  happiness  of  the  whole  house.     The  fact 


170  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

that  Jane  had  been  with  the  Claybournes  three  years  seemed 
to  me  evidence  in  favour  of  Helen's  version. 

The  dinner  was  truly  marvellous.  There  is  no  other  word 
to  express  it.  Mr.  Pickwick  never  fared  better  at  Dingley 
Dell.  Such  turkeys  as  America  produces  do  not  grow  again 
until  heaven  is  reached.  Before  a  fine  specimen  of  this  delec- 
table bird  was  eaten  on  this  day,  Uncle  Peter,  rather  vigorously 
prompted  by  Aunt  Ethel,  said  grace.  Uncle  Peter  spoke  the 
kind  of  grace  that  one  makes  up  as  one  goes  along,  and  he 
landed  himself  in  a  sentence  from  which  there  was  no  retreat, 
either  forward  or  backward.  Just  as  Helen  mischievously  and 
irreverently  kicked  me  on  the  shin  under  the  table,  Uncle  Peter 
cut  the  Gordian  knot  of  his  rhetoric  by  a  loud  "Amen."  My 
laugh,  therefore,  did  no  damage  to  the  proprieties.  Helen  and 
I  were  too  light-hearted  and  hungry  to  be  abashed  by  any 
amount  of  family.  Excitement  had  spoiled  our  appetites  on 
the  day  before,  but  now  there  was  no  stopping  us.  We  laughed 
so  loudly  at  Uncle  Peter's  anecdotes  that  he  gave  himself  an  en- 
core on  several  of  them,  and  we  clearly  were  his  firm  friends. 
Our  plates  went  back  for  turkey  and  cranberry  sauce  again  and 
again.  Mr.  Claybourne  produced  his  champagne  and  ran 
through  all  his  favourite  toasts.  Mrs.  Claybourne  smiled  at 
least  three  times.  Aunt  Ethel  declined  champagne  with  great 
firmness,  and  her  eye  upon  Uncle  Peter  noticeably  reduced  the 
quantity  he  would  have  drunk.  He  had  to  snatch  it  in  nervous 
sips  when  his  wife  seemed  most  engaged.  He  was,  therefore, 
always  a  glass  behind  Mr.  Claybourne  and  me.  I  grew  reck- 
less enough,  in  spite  of  a  severe  shin  kick  from  Helen,  to  pro- 
pose Aunt  Ethel's  health.  Uncle  Peter  enthusiastically  sec- 
onded me,  seeing  a  chance  to  get  down  a  whole  glass,  and  Mr. 
Claybourne  joined  in.  Aunt  Ethel  was  compelled  to  acknowl- 
edge the  compliment  with  rather  a  frigid  bow,  and  I  gathered 
that  "we  in  Dayton"  didn't  drink  many  toasts  in  champagne. 

After  dinner  Uncle  Peter  forced  one  of  his  black  cigars  upon 
me  and  imperilled  all  the  structure  of  good  feeling  the  dinner 
had  built  up  in  me.  Deep  Harbor  gave  me  many  opportunities 
to  curse  the  proximity  of  the  island  of  Cubs  to  the  United 


OUR   FIRST   CHRISTMAS  171 

States.  In  spite  of  the  cigar,  Helen  and  I  skipped  away,  under 
a  volley  of  Uncle  Peter's  winks,  and  sat  down  to  talk  things 
over. 

"Do  you  feel  any  more  engaged  than  you  did  yesterday?" 
I  asked. 

Helen  smiled  and  turned  over  the  pages  of  a  book  I  had 
given  her.  "Yesterday,"  she  replied,  "the  family  tolerated 
us,  but  really  ignored  the  fact  of  our  engagement.  Today  they 
regard  it  as  something  that  has  actually  happened — and  all 
because  we  sat  at  table  with  a  lot  of  friends  and  told  them 
what  they  knew  already." 

"The  world,  it  appears  to  me,  is  conducted  by  a  series  of 
meaningless  ceremonies,"  I  remarked  in  my  wise  manner.  "It 
will  be  the  same  over  our  marriage.  Nothing  could  make  us 
mean  any  more  to  each  other  than  we  do  now — but  the  family 
will  attach  great  importance  to  the  marriage." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Ted,"  said  Helen, — unexpectedly,  to  me, 
taking  the  side  of  convention.  "Of  course  they  will.  We  have 
to  be  married." 

"I'm  not  arguing  against  it,"  If  said,  and  Helen  gently  slapped 
me.     "But  I  wonder  why?" 

"My  mother,"  Helen  answered  simply,  "has  a  genuine  belief 
in  the  ceremony  of  the  church.  To  her,  marriage  is  a  sacra- 
ment." 

"And  what  do  you  think?"  I  queried. 

Helen  looked  out  of  the  window  thoughtfully.  "I  don't 
know,  Ted  dear.  I  felt  it  was  a  sacrament  when  I  opened  my 
eyes,  after  the  horse  fell  with  me,  and  I  found  you  holding  me 
in  your  arms.  I  know  then  that  nothing  on  earth  could  make 
us  belong  any  more  to  each  other  than  we  did  then.  I  think 
that  would  have  been  all  I  should  have  asked — just  to 
know  you  loved  me." 

"That  is  all  I  want  to  know,  Helen  dear,"  I  said,  taking  her 
in  my  arms.  "But  of  course  we  shall  get  married  according  to 
the  rules." 

"You  delicious  idiot,"  Helen  laughed,  "of  course  we  shall. 
Can  you  imagine  Deep  Harbor,  if  we  didn't?" 


172  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

The  prospect  was  dazzling  to  the  imagination.  Miss  Her- 
shey  and  the  daily  Eagle  between  them — I  laughed  at  the 
thought. 

"I  wouldn't  do  anything  to  hurt  dad,"  Helen  added  softly, 
and  I  again  held  her  close. 

"I  was  only  moralizing  on  this  question  of  ceremonies,  Helen 
precious,"  I  whispered.  "It  has  always  amazed  me  that  peo- 
ple attach  such  great  value  to  them.  I  suppose  it  is,  after  all, 
because  ceremonies  have  to  be  public,  and  they  are  thus  a  pub- 
lic acknowledgement  of  assumed  obligations." 

"If  the  church  means  anything  to  you,  then  its  sanction  must 
be  a  tremendous  comfort,"  Helen  mused.  "I  sometimes  wish 
I  knew  what  I  believed,  don't  you,  Ted?" 

"I  am  trying  to  find  out,  but  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I 
think  chemistry  is  the  key  to  the  mystery — and  then  it  isn't. 
Chemistry  didn't  make  your  grey  eyes,  sweetheart.  There  is  a 
Helen  in  them  that  no  chemistry  made." 

"I  don't  think  chemistry  made  Ted,  either,"  she  smiled  shyly. 
"For  if  it  did,  he  would  be  more  logical." 

"There's  a  nasty  knock  in  that  somewhere,  young  lady,"  I 
said  in  mock  anger,  "but  I'm  blest  if  I  know  where  it  is." 

"I  never  know,"  she  came  back  inconsequentially,  "whether 
I  love  you  more  when  you  don't  think,  or  when  you  tangle  your- 
self up  in  whimsies  trying  to  think." 

"Neither  of  us  has  the  faintest  idea  what  truth  is" — I  began, 
preparing  another  disquisition.  She  cut  me  short:  "No,  Ted, 
we  haven't.  We  begin  life  with  just  one  certain  fact  and  no 
more." 

"What  is  that  certain  fact?"  I  asked. 

"Can  you  ask,  Ted?  We  love  each  other — that's  all  we 
know." 

"It's  enough,"  I  said,  kissing  her  mouth.  She  smiled  at  me, 
her  face  close. 

"We'll  begin  with  that,  Ted  darling." 


Chapter  Eleven 
we   seek   and   obtain   consent 

DURING  that  winter  and  early  spring  the  business,  under 
Knowlton's  shrewd  management,  was  making  good  pro- 
gress. It  was  clear  that,  although  it  would  take  a  much 
greater  investment  of  capital  to  turn  the  factory  into  a  producer 
of  fortunes,  nevertheless  the  plant  was  now  on  the  way  to  be- 
coming a  steady  income-maker  for  its  owners.  Knowlton 
thought  it  might  be  possible  to  get  local  capital  and  expand; 
he  exchanged  several  letters  and  cables  with  my  father  in  Lon- 
don on  the  subject.  One  day  authorization  came  to  him  to  go 
ahead. 

"That  will  be  one  of  your  jobs,  Ted,"  he  remarked  to  me  one 
evening  in  my  room,  as  he  tossed  over  my  father's  cable  for  me 
to  read. 

"What  will?"  I  asked. 

"Going  around  and  talking  to  our  local  magnates.  They  are 
all  your  social  friends  out  at  the  country  club.  Let's  see  what 
your  friends  are  worth  to  you,"  and  he  grinned  one  of  his 
favourite  grins. 

"H'm,"  I  said,  studying  the  cable.  "What  have  we  got  to  put 
up  to  them?" 

"Listen  to  Teddy,"  shouted  Knowlton,  chuckling.  "Talking 
like  a  regular  business  man!  You  wouldn't  have  used  that 
language  six  months  ago." 

"I  am  beginning  to  pick  up  a  few  scraps  of  the  vernacular," 
I  retorted,  a  little  nettled.  Knowlton  grinned  number  two 
grin.  He  proceeded  to  lecture  me  on  the  present  merits  and 
future  possibilities  of  our  company.  It  was  all  to  be  put 
down  in  black  and  white  for  me  to  study,  with  what  he  called 
"the  best  talking  points"  underlined. 

173 


174  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

"Go  after  them  hard,"  he  advised  at  the  conclusion.  "Don't 
take  'no'  for  an  answer,  and  don't  be  afraid  of  their  questions. 
We  are  as  promising-looking  an  outfit  as  there  is  in  town. 
Why,  they  ought  to  swing  this  thing  for  us  as  a  matter  of  local 
pride.     We'll  bring  money  to  the  place." 

"Since  we  are  making  a  fairly  good  thing  of  it  as  we  stand, 
why  not  leave  well  enough  alone?"  I  queried  by  way  of  final 
objection. 

"My  boy,  it  can't  be  done.  If  you  try  to  stand  still,  you 
only  slide  down  hill.  It's  a  law  of  business.  Get  on  or  get 
out — that's  our  American  jungle  law.  Besides,  it's  a  question 
now  of  obeying  the  old  man's  orders." 

"You  mean  my  father?"  I  suggested. 

Knowlton  grinned:  "I  beg  your  pardon.  It's  our  masterV 
voice." 

I  got  up  and  hunted  for  my  tobacco.  "The  devil  with  you. 
Knowlton,  is  that  every  time  I  begin  to  imagine  everything  i» 
all  right,  you  have  some  infernal  new  anxiety  to  thrust  under 
my  nose." 

"Shove  your  pipe  under  it  instead  and  shut  up,"  he  laughed. 
"That's  life,  my  boy.  You  can't  sit  it  out  in  a  rocking  chair. 
If  you  try,  they  take  away  the  front  porch  from  under  you 
when  you  aren't  looking." 

I  filled  my  pipe  and  studied  Knowlton's  face  as  I  did  so.  It 
came  to  me  with  a  start  that  I  had  been  taking  him  for  granted 
for  several  months  now.  I  no  longer  analysed  him,  or  tried  to, 
as  I  had  done  at  first.  Suppose  Knowlton  was  not  himself  on 
the  square  and  I  had  been  careless?  The  idea  was  disturbing. 
There  he  sat,  characteristically  enough,  with  his  legs  crossed? 
the  tips  of  his  fingers  together,  a  big  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and 
his  sharp  eyes  puckered  at  the  corners  with  crows'  feet.  He 
was  oblivious  to  my  scrunity,  for  he  was  turning  over  the  new 
proposition  in  his  mind.  He  could  day  dream  in  arithmetic  as 
a  poet  could  upon  hearing  the  song  of  a  lark.  His  face  was 
hard,  but  there  was  a  rugged  honesty  in  it,  a  touch  of  the  old 
Scots'   stock  from  which  he  sprang,  with  the  superimposed 


WE  SEEK  AND  OBTAIN  CONSENT   175 

keenness  and  alertness  of  the  trail-following  American.  Be- 
sides, I  remembered  his  confidences  to  me  that  Christmas  Eve 
out  at  the  country  club.  He  too  was  a  sentimentalist — and 
such  as  we,  who  are  sentimentalists,  are  apt  to  be  dishonest 
only  to  ourselves  or  to  those  we  love;  the  money  form  of  dis- 
honesty is  abhorrent  to  an  emotional  man.  Knowlton  was  of 
the  common  type  who  masked  deep  feeling  by  an  outward 
hard  glamour  of  efficiency.  I  must  have  gone  on  too  long 
staring  at  him,  for  he  suddenly  turned  around  with  a  slight 
narrowing  of  the  eyes. 

"Wondering  if  I  am  big  enough  for  the  job,  Ted?"  he  asked 
casually,  as  he  tried  to  remedy  the  faulty  burning  of  his  cigar. 
"I  wondered  it  about  you.  It's  only  fair  for  you  to  have  your 
turn,"  he  went  on. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered.  "I  don't  know  whether  either  of 
us  is.     It's  a  big  responsibility  we  are  starting  out  to  face." 

"Everything  is.  It's  a  responsibility  to  buy  a  basketful  of 
hot  dogs  and  sell  them  at  a  street  corner.  It  might  rain,"  he 
countered. 

"I  know,"  I  laughed.     "Hotspur  said  the  same  thing." 

"Shakespeare  again?" 

I  nodded.  He  suddenly  laid  down  his  cigar.  "By  God, 
Ted,"  he  exclaimed,  "were  you  thinking  I  might  not  be  on  the 
square?" 

I  hesitated  for  a  second,  puzzled.  Either  he  was  a  very 
clever  man,  or — I  did  not  know  what  to  think. 

"You  once  told  me  to  take  no  one  for  granted,"  I  fumbled 
slowly,  "if  it  was  a  question  of  business.  There  were  to  be  no 
exceptions,  you  said."  I,  saw  the  twinkle  gathering  in  the  cor- 
ners of  his  eyes.  "I've  known  you,  Knowlton,  nine  months, 
but  I  don't  know  very  much  about  you." 

He  laughed  long  and  loud.  "That's  having  a  man's  teach- 
ing come  home  and  howl  on  his  own  doorstep!"  he  laughed. 
"Sometimes,  Ted,  I  think  you  are  the  biggest  damn  fool  I  ever 
knew,  and  then  you'll  do  something  else,  and  I  say,  'No,  cuss  it 
all,  the  boy  has  brains  after  all.' " 


176  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"Meaning  that  now  I  am  in  the  damn  fool  stage?"  I 
snorted,  rather  irritated.  He  had  a  way  of  making  one  feel  as 
if  he  held  one  in  his  hand. 

"It  penetrates,"  he  shouted.  "The  boy  is  getting  intelligent 
again,"  and  he  laughed  some  more.  "Ted,"  he  said,  growing 
instantly  serious,  "since  I  earned  my  first  dollar,  you  are  the 
only  man  who  has  ever  to  my  face  doubted  my  honesty."  He 
went  off  into  a  laugh  again.  "And  to  think,"  he  roared,  "that 
I  promised  myself  that  I'd  bust  the  first  one  who  did  on  the 
nose." 

I  pulled  at  my  pipe,  waiting  for  him  to  finish.  I  was  con- 
scious of  an  unpleasant  glow  at  the  back  of  my  neck. 

"Ted,  you  raised  this  issue.  Let's  have  it  out."  I  waved 
my  pipe  deprecatingly.  "No,  sir,"  he  went  on,  "you  asked  for 
a  dog  fight.  We'll  have  one.  Have  you  ever  studied  the  books 
of  the  company?" 

"No,"  I  muttered.  "It  wouldn't  do  me  any  good  if  I  did.  I 
don't  know  bookkeeping." 

A  trace  of  a  grin  returned  to  his  face.  "Well,  you  can  hire 
chartered  accountants  to  do  it  for  you,"  he  said.  "If  ever  you 
do  look  at  them,  you  will  discover  that  I  am  a  salaried  man  and 
haven't  one  penny  interest  in  this  company  except  the  profes- 
sional one  of  making  good  on  a  job." 

I  was  out  of  my  depth  and  lacked  the  technical  vocabulary 
to  make  a  suitable  reply. 

"Now,  Ted,  if  we  do  put  over  this  new  proposition,  all  it  will 
mean  to  me  will  be  a  letter  of  thanks  from  your  father.  I 
mean,  legally  speaking,  I'll  have  no  special  claims  for  anything 
I  do.  I  have  no  financial  interest  at  stake  except  the  purely 
human  one  of  making  a  good  job  a  better  one." 

I  got  up  and  held  out  my  hand.     "I'm  sorry,  Knowlton." 

His  old  grin  returned  as  he  took  my  hand.  "It's  all  right, 
kid,"  he  said.     "I'm  glad  you're  learning." 

Deep  Harbor  I  suspected  to  be  a  difficult  spot  in  which  to  do 
new  financing.     Probably  our  absentee  ownership  would  be  a 


WE  SEEK  AND   OBTAIN   CONSENT       177 

handicap.  I  went  first  to  Mr.  Claybourne  to  ask  his  advice. 
He  received  me  in  his  little  office,  which  was  upstairs  in  his  own 
factory.  His  face  grew  serious  as  he  listened  to  me,  and  I  saw 
him  watching  a  switch-engine  through  the  window. 

"I  don't  know,  Ted,"  he  said  at  length,  after  my  story  was 
done.  "I'll  be  frank  with  you.  This  isn't  the  time  to  think  of 
you  as  a  future  son-in-law.  We  are  talking  now  about  Deep 
Harbor  and  business.  We  don't  know  much  about  you.  The 
company  is  directed  from  London.  We  don't  like  that.  On 
the  grounds  we  have  you  and  Knowlton.  Now  I  dare  say  you 
are  all  right  as  a  chemist,  Ted — out  in  your  laboratory.  But 
you  don't  know  any  more  about  American  business  than  a  babe 
unborn." 

"That  leaves  Knowlton,"  I  suggested. 

"Yes,  that  leaves  Knowlton,"  he  echoed.  "Knowlton  is  a 
salaried  man.  He  has  no  financial  interest  in  your  concern. 
Supposing  some  one  offers  him  a  bigger  salary  and  he  ups 
and  leaves  you.     Where  would  you  be?" 

"Knowlton?"  I  gasped  incredulously.     "Leave  us?" 

"It  has  happened,"  said  Mr.  Claybourne  drily.  "And  after 
all,  why  not?  Why  should  Knowlton  stick  with  you,  if  he  can 
make  more  somewhere  else?" 

"But — but  loyalty,"  I  protested,  "good  faith — a  dozen  things 
make  it  out  of  the  question ! " 

Mr.  Claybourne  shook  his  head  slowly.  "Ted,  you  are  going 
to  get  some  hard  knocks  some  day.  The  world  isn't  run  the 
way  you  think  it  is.  And  I  don't  mean  any  discredit  to  Knowl- 
ton, either.  It  would  only  be  sound  sense  for  him  to  jump  at 
a  better  offer." 

My  faith  in  Knowlton  was  unshaken,  but  I  turned  Mr.  Clay- 
bourne's  words  over  in  my  mind.  "If  that  is  an  objection," 
I  said  at  last,  "I'll  cable  my  father  to  give  Knowlton  an  interest 
in  the  business." 

"You  ought  to  have  done  that  long  ago,"  replied  Mr.  Clay- 
bourne. "Well,  Ted,  I'm  sorry  I  can't  encourage  you.  Com- 
ing to  dinner  tonight?" 

From  Mr.  Claybourne's  factory  I  walked  straight  to  the  tele- 


178  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

graph-and-cable  office.  "Do  it  now,  as  Knowlton  would  say," 
I  smiled  to  myself  as  I  walked  along  the  street.  It  was  quite  a 
different  thing  for  me  to  walk  along  Deep  Harbor's  streets 
now  from  what  it  had  been  the  first  few  months.  It  almost 
seemed  as  if  half  the  persons  I  met  knew  me.  "Hello,  Ted!" 
passing  men  would  call  with  cheery  friendliness — from  the  bar- 
ber at  the  Otooska  House  to  the  president  of  the  country  club,  I 
was  "Ted."  Young  ladies  waved  friendly  hands  at  me  from 
front  porches,  or  would  ask  after  Helen  as  I  went  by.  It  was 
a  curiously  intimate  town,  where  men  often  fought  each  other 
bitterly  in  business  and  played  golf  together  afterwards  at  the 
country  club.  We  had  no  secrets  from  each  other,  and  the 
young  people  wandered  in  and  out  of  each  other's  homes  a* 
into  clubs.  It  was  a  frightfully  public  way  to  live,  and  yet  not 
unpleasant. 

There  was  a  special  free  masonry  among  the  men.  They 
knew  each  other's  financial  standing  and  bank  account  down  to 
the  last  cent.  They  also  knew  each  other's  business  capacity 
and  reliability  with  astounding  accuracy.  One  heard  at  the 
club  startlingly  frank  revelations  about  all  that  was  going  on, 
and  nothing  that  happened  remained  long  unknown  or  undis- 
cussed. There  were  some  things  talked  about  which  did  not 
reach  the  ears  of  the  women — whom  So-and-so  visited  on  his 
last  trip  to  New  York,  for  example.  The  men  knew  and 
laughed  at  much  that  their  code  kept  from  their  wives.  On  the 
whole,  Deep  Harbor  was  a  reasonably  moral  place,  in  spite  of 
much  cocktail  drinking  and  free  and  easy  manners.  But  there 
were  a  few  notorious  exceptions.  And  others,  less  notorious, 
indulged  in  occasional  flings  in  distant  towns.  I  never  heard 
of  any  "prominent  citizen"  who  kept  a  double  establishment  in 
Deep  Harbor.  A  double  life  there  meant  a  train  j  ourney.  An 
actual  local  scandal  was  a  six  months'  wonder  and  carried 
with  it  almost  complete  ostracism  to  boot.  We  had  had  a 
few  famous  divorces,  but  none  during  my  time. 

I  was  thinking  of  all  this  as  I  walked  to  the  telegraph  office 
on  State  Street.  The  greetings  along  the  way  had  started  me 
on  my  train  of  thought.     I  was  a  long  time  wording  my  cable 


WE  SEEK  AND  OBTAIN  CONSENT   179 

to  my  father  and  still  longer  reducing  it  to  a  business  code.  A 
cable  or  telegram  in  plain  language  was  not  advisable.  Deep 
Harboi  knew  everything,  even  the  secrets  you  sent  or  received 
by  wire.  I  had  been  casually  questioned  more  than  once  about 
sending  messages  in  code.  One  advantage  of  so  thoroughly 
transparent  a  glass  house  was  that  no  one  cared  particularly 
about  casting  stones.  The  infinite  gossip  of  the  men,  while 
frank  and  outspoken  in  its  opinions,  was  rarely  malicious.  It 
was  simply  that  a  naked  truth,  deprived  of  the  last  fig  leaf,  cir- 
culated concerning  every  one. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Jevons,"  said  the  telegraph  girl,  as  she  took 
my  coded  message.     "Charge  it  to  the  company?" 

"No — personal,"  I  answered.  Knowlton  had  a  way  of 
making  me  account  for  every  cable.  A  company  cable  had  to 
have  a  copy  filed  at  the  office. 

"Shall  I  'phone  an  answer  out  to  the  Claybournes'?"  she 
asked,  as  if  it  were  a  perfectly  ordinary  matter  for  her  to  have 
an  intimate  knowledge  of  my  evening  movements. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  for  one  got  accustomed  to  Deep  Harbor's  ways, 
"but  make  certain  you  give  the  reply  to  me  in  person.  Do  not 
leave  a  message  or  'phone  it  to  any  one  else  in  the  house." 

I  took  the  electric  car  out  to  the  factory  to  report  to  Knowl- 
ton. 

"Claybourne  is  rather  pessimistic,"  I  began. 

"He  would  be,"  said  Knowlton.  "He  doesn't  want  to  make 
himself  personally  responsible  for  your  campaign.  If  he  were 
first  in,  it  would  commit  him  to  us  as  a  venture  which  he  was 
backing.  Almost  too  bad  you  are  to  be  his  son-in-law.  It  ties 
his  hands." 

I  said  nothing  about  Mr.  Claybourne's  real  objections. 

Mr.  Claybourne  left  early  after  dinner,  as  was  his  custom, 
to  play  bridge  at  the  club.  Mrs.  Claybourne  knitted  in  the 
front  room,  and  Helen  and  I  had  thus  our  evening  to  ourselves. 
Leonidas  curled  up  on  a  goatskin  rug  and  snored  while  we 
alternately  talked  and  read.     Spring  was  coming  on,  although 


180  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

April,  with  its  cold  winds  off  the  lake,  was  not  very  spring- 
like. But  the  approach  of  spring  made  us  look  forward  more 
definitely  to  a  possible  date  for  our  marriage.  So  far  I  had 
not  been  able  to  gain  my  father's  permission  either  to  return 
to  England  or  to  set  an  actual  date  for  the  wedding.  He 
hoped  that  it  could  be  arranged  by  mid-summer.  Beyond 
that,  he  refused  to  commit  himself.  Helen  thought  June,  as 
the  most  conventional  time,  would  probably  please  her  mother 
best.  Already  Mrs.  Claybourne  was  threatening  to  go  to  the 
coast  of  Maine  at  the  end  of  June  and  carry  Helen  with  her. 
We  knew  that  nothing  but  a  definite  date  could  forestall  this 
plan.  We  figured  that  we  could  almost  live  upon  my  salary, 
but  there  were  practical  difficulties  in  the  way  of  taking 
temporary  quarters,  if  we  were  going  to  England  soon  after- 
wards. We  were  therefore  a  little  reluctant  to  defy  matters 
and  get  married  at  once.  At  least,  so  Helen's  commonsense 
concluded.  We  could  not  afford  to  quarrel  with  either  family, 
and  a  matter  of  a  few  extra  weeks  seemed  hardly  worth  general 
displeasure.  I  agreed  with  Helen,  chiefly  because  it  never  oc- 
curred to  me  to  disagree  with  her.  We  were  each  so  sure  of  the 
other's  love  that  we  did  not  pass  through  those  agonies  of 
suspense,  petty  jealousies,  and  quarrels  that  seem  to  be,  ac- 
cording to  novels,  the  stock-in-trade  of  lovers'  conduct.  We 
were  simply,  insanely,  and  also  calmly  happy.  We  lived  in 
our  own  world,  allowed  no  one  across  its  threshold,  and  never 
dreamed  of  stepping*  outside  it  ourselves.  Leonidas  alone  was 
privileged  to  share  our  bliss. 

As  we  sat  and  talked  in  whispers  of  the  days  to  come,  the 
telephone  bell  rang.  It  was  a  cable  from  my  father,  and,  like 
mine,  in  code.  The  girl  at  the  other  end  spelled  it  out  to  me 
while  Helen  wrote  it  down.  At  last  we  had  it  all,  and  it  was 
a  fairly  long  one.  I  walked  into  the  hall  to  get  my  copy  of 
the  code  book,  and  discovered  that  I  had  left  it  at  the  telegraph 
office.  Helen  scolded  me  roundly,  for  our  evening  was  spoiled. 
It  meant  that  I  had  to  go  back  down  town  after  the  book,  and  it 


WE  SEEK  AND   OBTAIN   CONSENT      181 

would  then  be  too  late  to  return.  There  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  go. 

The  girl  at  the  office  was  quite  sorry  for  me.  She  had  found 
and  kept  my  book. 

"You  might  have  sent  it  out  by  messenger,"  I  said  reproach- 
fully. 

"I  thought  of  it,  Mr.  Jevons,"  she  said,  "but  I  didn't  know 
if  you  would  want  it  that  bad.  A  messenger  costs  thirty 
cents." 

"Yes,"  I  agreed,  "but  some  evenings  are  priceless." 

With  this  rather  flat  remark,  I  left  her.  I  went  home  to 
decode  the  message  at  my  leisure.  Another  postponement 
awaited  me  there,  for  I  found  Knowlton  ensconced  in  my  study, 
reading  one  of  my  books,  his  feet  upon  my  table.  He  came 
and  went  as  he  pleased  at  my  rooms,  an  arrangement  to  which 
I  had  never  objected.  But  I  could  not  tell  him  about  my 
father's  cable  until  I  knew  what  answer  I;  had  received.  If 
my  father  refused  my  suggestion,  obviously  I  could  not  let 
Knowlton  know  anything  about  it.  He  sat  and  talked  until 
well  past  midnight,  while  the  unread  cable  burned  a  hole  in 
my  pocket. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Knowlton  suddenly,  "a  cable  came 
through  for  you  this  evening.     Anything  in  it?" 

"From  the  family,"  I  replied,  mentally  damning  Deep  Har- 
bor's skill  in  publicity.     "But  how  did  you  know?" 

Knowlton  grinned.  "I,  happened  to  be  sending  a  telegram, 
and  the  young  lady  with  the  auburn  hair  mentioned  that  she 
had  just  'phoned  one  out  to  you  at  the  Claybournes'.  In  code, 
she  said.  Ijt  was  all  by  way  of  making  conversation,  Ted. 
She  thought  I'd  be  interested  to  know.  I,'ll  bet  she  knows  the 
day  I  leave  off  my  flannels  and  put  on  my  summer  underwear," 
Knowlton  added,  with  his  trenchant  vulgarity.  He  got  upon 
his  feet,  stretched  himself,  and  said  good-night.  I  saw  him  to 
the  door  and  well  on  his  way  to  the  Otooska  House,  and  then 
returned  to  my  code  book.  I,t  was  a  slow  job.  Each  word  in 
the  code  stood  for  either  a  phrase  or  a  complete  sentence.     I 


182  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

had  to  look  each  one  up  in  the  book  and  then  fit  the  meanings 
together,  bit  by  bit,  like  a  mosaic.  At  last  the  whole  was 
clear.     I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes.     Here  is  what  I  saw: 

"Good  offer  received  for  sale  of  business.  Cancel  any  sub- 
scriptions of  local  capital.  Give  K.  five  per  cent  bonus  net 
proceeds  above  salary.  Necessary  papers  follow  first  mail.  T 
[that  meant  me]  sail  England  August  first.     Bring  H." 

And  all  because  I  was  such  a  blithering,  blistering  idiot  as  to 
leave  my  code  book  at  the  telegraph  office,  Helen  missed  hear- 
ing the  good  news  that  night.  .Twice  my  hand  reached  for  the 
telephone,  and  twice  I  paused.  I  couldn't  call  Helen  up  at 
one-thirty  in  the  morning,  not  even  to  tell  her  she  was  to  be 
married  in  July.  At  least,  ^  couldn't  with  Mrs.  Claybourne  in 
the  house.  It  would  have  meant  an  all-night  session  of 
hysterics,  \  felt  sure,  and  I  had  to  spare  Helen  that.  But  I 
could  tell  Knowlton !  I  grabbed  the  telephone  and  demanded 
the  Otooska  House  until  the  central  operator  must  have 
thought  there  was  a  madman  at  the  other  end.  At  last  I  heard 
Knowlton's  sleepy  voice. 

"What  the  hell  is  it,  Ted?  Factory  on  fire  or  Prospero's 
ghost  haunting  you?" 

"Neither,"  I  shouted  at  him.     "I'm  going  to  be  married." 

"Great  God,  kid,  are  you  drunk?"  he  came  back.  "Go  to 
bed  and  let  a  man  sleep.  It's  a  dirty  joke  getting  me  up  at 
this  hour." 

"It's  the  cable  from  father — I've  decoded  it." 

"Hello,"  his  voice  came  sharper.  "I  knew  darned  well  you 
were  lying  to  me  earlier  in  the  evening.     What  is  it?" 

"The  business  has  been  sold,"  I  said,  waiting  to  hear  what 
the  effect  would  be. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause;  then  his  voice  came  steady. 
"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  kid.  I  guess  that  means  your  uncle 
Dudley  is  out  of  a  job." 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  I  cut  in,  a  little  regretful  that  I  had  teased 
him.  "I'm  instructed  to  pay  you  a  bonus  of  five  per  cent  of 
the  net  proceeds  over  and  above  your  salary.  Looks  as  if  my 
father  thought  enough  of  you  to  put  you  on  something  else." 


WE   SEEK  AND   OBTAIN   CONSENT      183 

There  was  another  pause — so  long  a  one  that  Central  almost 
cut  us  off. 

"Listen,  kid,"  came  Knowlton's  voice,  when  vigorous  pro- 
tests from  us  both  had  restored  connection  again.  "What  did 
you  cable  your  father  early  this  afternoon?" 

"None  of  your  darned  business,"  I  replied.  "How  did  you 
know  I  cabled  him?" 

"The  auburn  haired  little  bird  whispered  it  to  me  when  she 
told  me  about  the  reply  that  came."  I  could  almost  feel 
Knowlton's  grin  travelling  over  the  wire  to  me.  "What  did 
you  say?" 

"It's  a  long  story.     I'll  tell  you  in  the  morning." 

I  heard  him  laugh.  "You  won't  be  at  the  factory  in  the 
morning." 

"Why?"  I,  asked. 

"Because  you'll  be  out  on  Myrtle  Boulevard  telling  some 
one  the  big  news." 

"Honest?"  I  said.     "I  can  have  the  morning  off?" 

"Say,"  he  came  back,  "for  gosh'  sake  cut  out  this  me-the- 
boss  stuff.  I  don't  give  a  darn  if  you  never  come  out  again. 
Yes,  I  do;  I'll  take  that  back.  You'll  tell  me  some  time  to- 
morrow what  you  cabled  your  father,  or  I'll  sit  on  the  door 
step  at  Myrtle  Boulevard  until  I  find  out.  Seriously,  kid,  one 
day  off,  then  we  get  things  in  shape  to  turn  the  works  over. 
No  Norwood  stunts  for  us.  It'll  be  a  healthy,  going  concern. 
August,  did  you  say?  That  gives  us  three  months  clear. 
Put  your  back  in  it  and  give  my  love  to  Helen  in  the  morn- 
ing," and  he  hung  up  the  receiver  with  a  crash  in  my  ear. 

I  thought  sleep  was  going  to  be  impossible  that  night,  but 
about  four  o'clock,  as  my  mind  seemed  in  a  perfect  welter 
which  defied  all  efforts  at  reduction  to  order,  I  fell  into  a 
dreamless  slumber.  It  was  after  eight  when  I  awoke,  with  a 
curse  at  myself  for  forgetting  to  set  the  alarm.  After  a  hasty 
shower  and  omitting  breakfast  I  dashed  out  Myrtle  Boulevard 
as  rapidly  as  decorum  permitted.     I  arrived  a  little  after  nine. 


184  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

Mr.  Claybourne  had  already  gone  to  his  office.  Mrs.  Clay- 
bourne  was  anything  but  pleased  to  see  me  at  that  hour.  Her 
forehead  was  still  adorned  with  one  or  two  iron  clamps  in 
which  her  hair  was  tightly  wound.  I  tried  to  get*  past  her 
to  call  for  Helen.  Mrs.  Claybourne  was  firm.  Helen  was  as- 
sisting Jane  with  the  house  work,  and  I  was  on  no  account  to 
disturb  her.  Besides,  I  ought  to  be  out  at  the  factory  at  work, 
like  other  sensible  men.  It  was  bad  enough  my  calling  every 
night.  If  I  was  to  be  underfoot  in  the  morning,  too,  things 
might  just  as  well  stop  where  they  were.  There  was  a  limit  to 
a  mother's  patience.  She  was  accustomed  to  the  fact  that 
neither  Helen  nor  I  ever  showed  her  the  slightest  considera- 
tion, but  there  was  a  bound  set  up  by  decency  which  no  one  had 
a  right  to  cross,  and  that  bound  she  would  defend  at  all  costs. 

Not  for  anything  would  I  have  told  her  the  object  of  my 
call,  until  Helen  had  first  heard  the  news,  and  I  was  ruefully 
considering  going  home  and  telephoning  Helen,  when  this 
young  lady  herself  stuck  her  head  over  the  banisters. 

"What  in  the  world,  Ted,  are  you  quarrelling  with  mother 
for  just  after  breakfast?  Come  upstairs  and  be  scolded  at 
once." 

Mother  let  out  a  shocked  "Helen!  The  rooms  aren't  done!" 
but  I  bounded  by  her  and  upstairs  before  Mrs.  Claybourne 
could  clutch  me.  Helen  looked  adorable  in  a  boudoir  cap 
with  little  pink  roses  on  it  and  a  Japanese  kimono  that  trailed 
on  the  floor. 

"Well,"  she  said  with  mock  severity,  "what  do  you  mean, 
sir,  by  forcing  your  way  into  the  house  in  this  fashion?" 

Belowstairs  Mrs.  Claybourne  was  repeatedly  ordering  me  to 
come  down.     I  wondered  how  long  I  dared  ignore  her. 

"Helen,"  I  gasped,  "I  must  see  you  alone — my  father's  cable 
— 'the  best  news — urgent." 

Helen  caught  my  arm,  and  the  strength  of  her  grasp  sur- 
prised me.     "Ted — you  don't  mean? — is  it  true?" 

"Yes,"  I  choked,  "as  soon  as  we  can  make  all  arrangements." 

She  planted  a  sudden  kiss  square  on  my  mouth  just  as  Mrs. 


WE  SEEK  AND   OBTAIN   CONSENT      185 

Claybourne  toiled  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  in  breathless  and 
exasperated  pursuit. 

"Helen,  I'm  surprised  at  you — and  at  Edward.  You  are 
not  properly  dressed — go  to  your  room  at  once." 

By  way  of  reply,  Helen  did  the  most  surprising  thing.  She 
deliberately  kicked  as  high  as  the  rather  tight  kimono  would 
permit,  threw  her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck,  and,  frantic- 
ally kissing  her,  bore  Mrs.  Claybourne  heavily  to  ground  in  a 
sitting  posture  on  top  of  a  cedar  clothes  chest.  I  had  never 
seen  Helen  before  in  a  reckless  state  of  high  spirits.  Mrs. 
Claybourne  energetically  fought  off  her  daughter's  embraces. 

"Helen  Claybourne,"  she  exclaimed,  "don't  you  dare  tell  me 
that  you  and  Edward  are  going  to  be  married.  I,  won't  hear 
it!" 

"We  are,  mother,  we  are!"  cried  the  excited  child,  and  flung 
her  arms  about  me,  leading  me  around  the  hall  in  a  wild  and 
undignified  dance.  I  feebly  protested,  fearing  at  least  double- 
woman-power  hysterics  from  Mrs.  Claybourne.  But  "mother" 
was  made  of  sterner  stuff  when  it  came  to  a  pinch.  Her  lips 
narrowed  to  an  ominous  straight  line  as  she  got  upon  her  feet. 

"Helen,"  she  commanded  in  a  changed  tone  of  voice.  "Go 
to  your  room!  Your  father  will  deal  with  you  presently. 
Edward,  you  will  oblige  me  by  leaving  my  house  instantly!" 

Helen  released  me,  for  we  saw  that,  in  the  phraseology  of 
Deep  Harbor,  Mrs.  Claybourne  "meant  business."  I  bowed 
and  started  downstairs.  I  looked  back  at  Helen  from  the  land- 
ing, and  over  her  mother's  shoulder  I  saw  her  mouth  form 
silently  the  word  "dad."  I  took  the  hint,  going  straight  to  Mr. 
Claybourne's  office  as  rapidly  as  I  could  get  there. 

I  rather  precipitately  upset  the  office  boy's  theory  of  etiquette 
and  literally  banged  into  his  office.  He  was  talking  over 
the  telephone  with  a  serious  face.  I  realized  that  "mother" 
had  beaten  me  in  reaching  him,  thanks  to  the  curse  of  the 
modern  machine. 

"Sit  down,  Edward,  and  keep  quiet,"  he  commanded,  adding 
through  the  mouthpiece,  "Yes.     He's  here.     He  has  just  come." 


186  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

After  what  seemed  an  hour,  although  it  was  only  a  few  min- 
utes, he  hung  up  the  receiver.  Not  by  a  single  word  had  he 
indicated  his  own  state  of  mind,  but  the  look  upon  his  face 
made  me  most  uneasy. 

"Ted,  you  and  Helen  both  show  a.  strange  lack  of  apprecia- 
tion for  a  mother's  point  of  view,"  he  began,  and  I  thought,  "O 
Lord,  I'm  in  for  a  sermon  on  filial  conduct."  "I  grant  you 
mother  is  very  nervous  and  difficult  to  handle,  but  a  little  show 
of  affection,  a  little  tact  even,  would  work  wonders." 

We  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment.     I  felt  rather  uncomfortable. 

"What  possible  excuse  have  you,"  he  went  on,  "for  going  out 
to  my  house  early  in  the  morning  and  upsetting  Helen's  mother 
when  I  wasn't  there?" 

"I  wished  to  see  Helen.  I've  had  an  important  cable  from 
my  father,  and  I  didn't  stop  to  think  of  anything  else." 

He  adjusted  his  glasses  carefully.  "No,"  he  said,  "you  and 
Helen  never  stop  to  think  of  any  one  but  yourselves.  Show  me 
your  father's  cable." 

I  laid  my  copy  before  him.  He  read  it  slowly,  turning  it 
over  once  or  twice.     Then  he  handed  it  back  to  me. 

"I  suppose  it  is  useless  to  ask  you  to  wait  until  Helen  is 
twenty-one,"  he  said,  peering  at  me  over  his  glasses. 

"Quite,"  I  answered  firmly,  for  I  began  to  feel  it  was  time 
we  spoke  for  ourselves  and  ceased  to  play  children  to  please 
the  family. 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  in  this  state  a  minor  has  to  have 
the  consent  of  her  parents  before  she  can  be  married?"  he  said, 
still  looking  steadily  at  me. 

"Yes."  I  spoke  rather  impudently.  "Helen  and  I  looked 
up  the  law  for  ourselves.  But  there  is  another  state  not  far 
away  where  eighteen  is  the  legal  age." 

"You  will  do  me  a  favour  if  you  do  not  speak  in  that  tone." 
It  was  not  often  that  he  spoke  sharply. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I,  apologized.  "Helen  and  I  intend  to 
get  married — that's  all  I  meant  to  imply." 

'Ted" — he  relaxed  just  a  little — "when  I  gave  my  consent  to 
your  engagement,  I  did  so  with  the  understanding  that  you 


WE  SEEK  AND   OBTAIN   CONSENT      187 

two  children  loved  each  other  and  intended  to  marry.  I  am 
sorry,  more  sorry  than  I  can  tell  you  or  than  either  of  you 
would  understand,  that  it  has  happened  when  Helen  is  so 
young.  Only  last  year  she  was  at  school,"  and  he  looked  out 
the  window  at  the  dusty  street.  "I  want  my  daughter  to  be 
happy — "  he  paused.  "There  isn't  a  great  deal  of  happiness 
to  be  found  in  this  world,  Ted.  I  want  her  to  have  her  share — 
that's  all."  Once  more  he  paused.  "As  for  the  date  of  the 
wedding,  you  must  settle  that  with  Helen's  mother.  Your 
father  expects  you  in  August?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  replied,  getting  to  my  feet. 

"I  suppose  that  means  it  will  have  to  be  the  end  of  July. 
Ted,  you  are  asking  a  great  deal  of  me — she's  all  the  happiness 
I  have."  He  looked  around  at  his  office.  "I've  never  refused 
her  anything  she's  asked — if  I  could  give  it  her.  I  shan't 
now,"  and  he  held  out  his  hand.  I  could  think  of  nothing  to 
say,  except  silly-sounding  words,  so  I  said  nothing,  but  took  his 
hand. 

"I  think  I  can  trust  her  to  you,  Ted — that's  all  I'll  say  about 
you,  and  I  could  hardly  say  more,"  he  added.  "I've  got  to 
clear  up  the  morning's  mail.  And  Ted,  when  you  come  out 
to  dinner  tonight — be  as  nice  as  you  know  how  to  Helen's 
mother.     Tell  Helen,  too.     It  will  pay." 

"Mr.  Claybourne — ,"  I  stammered,  turning  at  the  door. 

"Don't  try  to  say  it,  Ted,"  he  called  cheerily  from  his  desk. 
"I  guess  I  know.  I  love  Helen,  too."  He  pretended  to  write 
as  if  a  matter  of  urgency  were  before  him.  I  watched  him  for 
a  moment  more,  cursing  words  for  their  feebleness,  and  went.. 

I  called  Helen  up  from  the  nearest  telephone  pay-station  to 
give  her  a  summary  of  her  father's  talk,  but  again  I  had  been 
forestalled.  He  had  talked  to  his  daughter  direct  from  his. 
desk,  as  soon  as  I  left.  A  few  words  only,  but  he  had  told  her 
it  was  "all  right."  Meanwhile,  it  seemed,  "mother"  had  issued 
an  ultimatum  that  I  was  not  to  be  admitted  to  the  house 
again.  It  would  be  necessary  for  me  to  come  in  through  the 
kitchen,  Helen  giggled  over  the  telephone,  or  else  to  climb  over 
the  railing  of  the  side  porch.     There  was  no  use  in  my  coming 


188  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

at  all  until  her  father  returned  at  dinner-time.  We  agreed  to 
make  the  best  of  our  temporary  separation. 

I  went  next  to  Knowlton's  office. 

"Have  you  set  the  day?"  he  grinned,  as  I  entered. 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Knowlton,"  I  answered,  taking  the  visitor's 
chair. 

"How's  'mother'?"  he  went  on,  ignoring  my  admonition. 
"Did  she  raise  the  roof?" 

I  laughed,  for  Knowlton  had  an  annoyingly  successful  way 
of  disarming  one's  dignity  by  hitting  upon  the  exact  truth.  We 
went  into  a  minute  examination  of  the  company's  affairs,  after 
this  preliminary.  Or  rather  Knowlton  explained  while  X 
listened.  The  stock  was  held  by  a  small  group  of  men,  of 
whom  my  father  was  the  principal  and  the  majority  stock- 
holder. Selling  the  company  was,  therefore,  a  simple  matter 
of  the  transfer  of  the  stock  to  a  new  owner.  We  had  neither 
bonds  nor  mortgages,  and  we  had  paid  off  our  indebtedness  to 
the  bank  in  March.  Our  business  was  showing  a  healthy 
growth,  and  the  ultimate  value  of  our  chemical  patents  would 
be  considerable,  if  additional  capital  were  put  up  for  develop- 
ment work.  As  Knowlton  said:  "At  any  price  within  reason, 
this  outfit  is  a  damned  good  buy." 

Until  further  letters  and  papers  arrived,  we  had,  of  course, 
no  knowledge  of  who  the  new  owners  were  to  be. 

"Well,"  remarked  Knowlton,  at  the  end  of  his  summary, 
"our  little  job  in  Deep  Harbor  is  nearly  over.  Remember 
how  you  hated  to  come  out  here?  It  isn't  such  a  bad  place,  is 
it?  Old  Helene,  Prosper o's  gymnastic  friend,  wasn't  so  far 
wrong  when  she  said  'Home  is  where  you  find  it,'  eh,  Ted?" 

I  nodded  in  agreement.  I  couldn't  talk  about  things  I  felt 
the  way  he  could.  Once  more  he  grinned.  "Now,  Ted.  What 
did  you  cable  your  father  yesterday?" 

Briefly  I  told  him  of  my  talk  with  Mr.  Claybourne  and  the 
latter's  suggestion  that,  as  Knowlton  had  no  interest  in  the 
business,  he  might  leave  us.  Knowlton's  face  clouded  when  I 
had  ended  my  story. 


WE  SEEK  AND   OBTAIN   CONSENT        189 

"So  Claybourne  told  you  I  might  play  the  skunk  and  leave 
you  flat,  eh?" 

I  tried  to  soften  this  epitome  of  Mr.  Claybourne's  remarks. 
After  a  second  or  two,  Knowlton's  grin  returned. 

"It  would  be  plain  murder  to  leave  you  in  Deep  Harbor  with 
a  factory  on  your  hands.  No,  sir,  you  can  always  count  on  six 
months'  notice  from  me,  if  you  need  it.  And  under  the  cir- 
cumstances I  won't  touch  a  cent  of  your  father's  bonus.  He's 
sending  it  under  false  pretences." 

I  had  much  argument  to  convince  Knowlton  that  we  were 
not  doubting  his  good  faith.  It  was  simple  justice,  I  ex- 
plained. The  company  owed  everything  to  his  ability  and 
good  service,  from  the  time  he  discovered  that  Norwood  had 
sold  us  a  rather  prettily  plated  gold  brick  to  the  success  which 
out  of  all  difficulties  had  since  been  achieved.  We  ended  with 
a  compromise:  he  would  himself  send  my  father  a  complete 
statement  of  the  matter  from  his  point  of  view,  and  if,  after 
that,  my  father  thought  the  bonus  earned,  then  it  would  be 
accepted. 

"I'm  not  going  to  push  good  money  out  into  the  yard,  Ted," 
he  concluded.  "All  I,  want  to  know  first  is  whether  or  not  it's 
mine.  You  meant  well,  but  you  may  have  given  your  father 
the  idea  I'm  trying  to  hold  you  people  up." 

That  evening  Mr.  Claybourne  himself  opened  the  door  for 
me  when  I  rang. 

"Come  right  in,  Ted,"  he  greeted  me  cheerfully.  "Don't 
worry  if  mother  doesn't  act  very  pleased  to  see  you.  We'll 
bring  her  around  in  time." 

Once  inside,  I  found  Mrs.  Claybourne  sitting  red-eyed  upon 
the  sofa,  flanked  by  Miss  Hershey  on  one  side  and  Helen  on 
the  other.  The  air  was  slightly  electrical;  I  walked  gingerly 
for  fear  of  touching  something  off.  From  Helen's  eyes  mis- 
chief gleamed  as  she  sent  a  welcoming  smile  in  my  direction. 

At  dinner  the  vext  subject  was  not  mentioned.  Mrs.  Clay- 
bourne steadily  refused  food;  otherwise  we  all  tried  to  act  as 
if  nothing  unusual  was  toward.     Helen  sat  next  me,  and  her 


190  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

foot  played  a  silent  and  sympathetic  tattoo  upon  mine  all 
through  the  meal.  Mr.  Claybourne  read  the  evening  paper, 
or  pretended  to.  Miss  Hershey  gave  an  occasional  sigh  to  in- 
dicate that  her  sympathies  were  entirely  with  Mrs.  Claybourne. 
Helen  and  I  ate  with  splendid  appetites. 

After  dinner  we  seated  ourselves  in  a  solemn  circle  in  the 
drawing  room — a  disposition  of  the  .household  that  revealed  a 
careful  plan  on  Mr.  Claybourne's  part. 

"Now,  mother,"  he  began  to  his  wife  when  we  were  all  seated, 
"these  two  young  people  want  to  get  married." 

At  this  simple  statement  of  fact  Mrs.  Claybourne  collapsed. 
Through  many  sobs  Miss  Hershey  at  last  inserted  a  bottle  of 
smelling  salts.  Mr.  Claybourne  waited  patiently  for  the  first 
paroxysm  to  pass.     I  held  Helen's  hand. 

sTt  will  have  to  be  some  time  in  July,"  Mr.  Claybourne  re- 
sumed, "as  Ted's  father  has  ordered  him  to  sail  for  England 
on  August  first." 

"I — I — didn't  expect  you  to  turn  against  me  too,"  sobbed  and 
choked  Mrs.  Claybourne,  "and  stand  by  while  our  only  da — 
daughter  was  ca — carried  off  to — to  England." 

Mr.  Claybourne  returned  gently  and  patiently  to  the  attack. 
"Now,  mother,  we  went  all  through  this  before  when  they  were 
engaged.     It  is  natural  for  two  engaged  people  to  get  married." 

"N — not  when  one  of  them  is  a  ch — child,"  she  wailed.  "I'll 
never  consent — never — not  until  Helen  is  twenty-one." 

There  was  a  lot  more  of  this,  but  it  was  repetition  of  the 
same  statements  and  objections.  By  some  mysterious  process 
of  feminine  tact,  Helen  inserted  the  date  of  July  30th  into  the 
discussion,  and  to  my  intense  and  overwhelming  amazement, 
Mrs.  Claybourne  suddenly  sat  up  and  announced  that  there 
wasn't  a  moment  to  lose.  True,  this  was  at  the  end  of  about 
two  hours'  futile  struggle;  nevertheless  it  was  the  unexpected- 
ness of  the  surrender  that  left  me  speechless.  Mrs.  Clay- 
bourne at  once  launched  into  the  subject  next  nearest  her 
heart — clothes;  her  own  imaginary  ailments  were  number  one. 

Helen  entered  the  debate  in  earnest  at  this  point,  and  once 


WE   SEEK   AND   OBTAIN   CONSENT      191 

more  I  was  surprised,  this  time  at  Helen's  powers  of  argument. 

In  the  middle  of  this  new  controversy,  which  was  after  all 
but  guerilla  righting  now  the  main  action  had  been  won,  Mr. 
Claybourne  arose  and  announced  his  departure  for  the  club. 
As  I  seemed  to  have  no  share  in  what  was  going  on,  I  likewise 
deemed  it  prudent  to  go. 

"Poor  Ted,"  whispered  Helen  to  me  at  the  door,  "I  feel 
awfully  sorry  for  you.     You've  been  a  lamb." 

With  this  enigmatic  compliment  and  a  kiss,  I  was  thrust  into 
the  night  at  Mr.  Claybourne's  side. 

"Thank  you,"  I  said  lamely,  as  we  parted  at  the  corner  of 
State  Street. 

"Good-night,  Ted.     It's  been  quite  a  day's  work." 

Mine  wasn't  over.  I  sat  up  half  the  night  writing  a  letter 
to  my  father.     That  was  hard,  too. 


Chapter  Twelve 
we   pass  an   ordeal  and   sail   for   home 

THE  warm  days  of  May  and  June  found  Helen  and  me 
again  riding  over  the  low  rolling  country  back  of  Deep 
Harbor.  At  least,  that  is  what  we  did  on  Saturday  and 
Sunday  afternoons.  On  other  days  we  rode  at  night,  not  with- 
out protest  from  Mrs.  Claybourne.  Fortunately,  however,  the 
trousseau  kept  her  too  deeply  employed  to  offer  much  re- 
sistance. 

Spring  in  that  country  was  the  same  joy  and  wonder  that  it 
is  in  England.  The  fields  stayed  brown  longer,  perhaps,  for 
vineyards  are  slow  in  coming  into  leaf,  and  Indian  corn  is  not 
planted  until  late.  The  woods  made  up  for  any  delay  of  the 
open  fields.  Such  brilliant,  tender  greens  of  ferns  and  mosses, 
such  strange  and  overpowering  scents  from  grasses  and  leafy 
hollows!  To  be  sure,  we  watched  the  panorama  of  spring  and 
early  summer  with  lovers'  eyes,  but  I  defy  any  one  not  to  find 
that  countryside  an  earthly  paradise. 

And  at  night,  even  in  the  darkness  when  there  was  no 
moon,  we  rode  miles  through  velvety  black,  rich  with  the 
odours  of  growing  things.  Dogs  would  bark  at  our  horses 
from  farm-yard  gates  as  we  passed,  and  sleeping  cattle  near 
the  road  would  lift  drowsy  heads  in  surprise  at  the  sound 
of  our  horses'  hoofs.  There  were  no  motor-cars  to  come  roar- 
ing down  at  us  from  around  corners  with  dazzling  glare  of 
monster  eyes,  or  so  few  that  they  were  not  met  on  back 
country  roads.  We  could  ride  on  with  loose  rein,  certain 
no  danger  was  ahead.  It  was  on  these  rides  that  we  could 
really  talk  and  get  to  know  one  another.  Not  that  we  had 
rushed  at  love  in  the  autumn,  ignorant  of  what  we  did.  Yet 
it  seemed  as  if  each  day  we  found  new  depths  to  explore 
and  grew  nearer  to  one  another  the  further  we  went. 

192 


WE   PASS   AN   ORDEAL  193 

I  can  remember  little  of  what  we  said  or  of  what  subjects 
we  talked  about.  Much  of  it  was  lovers'  talk,  sometimes 
too  absurd  or  trivial  to  put  down  in  black  and  white,  or  else 
too  sacred  to  come  staring  at  one  from  the  pages  of  a  narra- 
tive. At  other  times  we  spoke  of  that  future,  now  so  near 
us,  and  built  dream  plans — a  little  cottage  with  a  red-tiled 
roof  to  be  somewhere  in  Hertfordshire,  with  a  vegetable  gar- 
den and  standard  rose  trees;  or  again,  we  wandered  in  fancy 
through  the  mysteries  of  London,  buying  books  off  a  stall  in 
the  Farringdon  Road  or  sitting  in  some  old  church  near  the 
crossed  feet  of  a  Crusader.  It  was  I  who  built  up  for  her 
the  dream  pictures  of  England — the  England  of  my  child- 
hood— the  London  which,  once  it  is  in  one's  blood,  is  there 
forever.  Helen  had  never  been  abroad,  and  to  her  my  sto- 
ries were  like  those  Othello  told  to  Desdemona.  She  learned 
to  know  England  in  imagination  and  came  to  speak  familiarly 
of  it,  as  if  she  herself  had  grown  up  on  its  soil. 

And  yet  we  both  loved  America  too.  From  a  hilltop  in 
May,  looking  across  miles  of  open  country  to  the  blue  lake, 
our  hearts  would  swell  with  joy  that  so  fair  a  land  was  ours. 
England  was  to  be  our  country  of  adventure,  in  which,  side 
by  side,  we  were  to  seek  fame  and  do  our  allotted  task  in 
life.  We  thought  no  less  of  one  country  for  the  joy  with 
which  we  looked  forward  to  the  other. 

On  the  first  of  July  Knowlton  and  I  turned  the  factory  over 
to  the  representatives  of  the  new  owners.  They  were  a  New 
York  corporation,  and  I  was  rather  amused  to  observe  that 
the  general  manager  arrived  with  the  same  chip  on  his 
shoulder  for  Deep  Harbor  that  I  had  first  carried.  He  was  a 
little,  fussy  man  of  about  thirty-five,  with  a  brown  Van  Dyke 
beard,  and  he  asked  me,  with  a  haughty  air,  if  I  knew  where 
there  was  anything  fit  to  eat  to  be  found. 

"You  have  had  breakfast  at  Shaefer's,"  I  said.  I  could 
see  Knowlton's  grin  over  the  corner  of  my  shoulder.  We 
were  in  his  office  at  the  factory. 

"I  have,"  Mr.  Ebling  replied,  with  a  grimace. 


194  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"There  is  no  place  in  Deep  Harbor  that  calls  itself  a  res- 
taurant where  you  can  get  anything  fit  to  eat,  Mr.  Ebling." 
I  uttered  this  solemnly. 

"Good  God!"  he  exclaimed. 

"But  if  you  will  lunch  with  me  today,  I  can  promise  you 
•satisfaction.  I  can  also  arrange  a  card  for  you  at  the  club. 
It  has  a  rather  remarkable  chef." 

His  gratitude  was  overpowering.  Then  we  proceeded  to 
sign  endless  papers,  with  some  exchanges  of  difficulties  be- 
tween the  lawyers  of  each  party.  I  had  a  full  power  of  attor- 
ney from  my  father  to  sign  for  him,  and  whenever  a  lawyer 
said  "Here,  if  you  please,"  I  wrote  my  name  with  a  flourish. 
At  the  end  a  certified  check  was  handed  to  me,  and  I  passed 
it  on  to  Knowlton.  Then  Knowlton  and  I  stood  up.  Our 
tenure  was  over. 

As  Mr.  Ebling  followed  me  out,  I  caught  Knowlton  stealing 
a  last  look  at  his  little  office.  He  lingered  a  moment  by  the 
shop  door  and  watched  the  men  at  the  machines,  as  we  arrived 
downstairs.  Since  we  were  still  to  be  in  Deep  Harbor  for 
another  month,  there  was  no  ceremony  of  saying  good-bye. 
Some  of  the  men,  nevertheless,  came  up  to  shake  hands  with 
Knowlton  and  me.  I  hated  to  turn  these  workmen  over  to 
another  management,  and  I  saw  Knowlton  was  thinking  the 
same  thing.  He  had  built  up  an  extraordinarily  efficient  and 
loyal  set  of  men, — "hand-picked,"  he  called  them.  I  had  a 
distinct  impression  that  Mr.  Ebling  would  not  be  so  good  a 
man  to  work  for.  His  Van  Dyke  beard  was  against  him. 
Also  his  eyes  lacked  a  twinkle;  in  its  stead  was  a  look  which 
showed  that  Mr.  Ebling  was  the  most  important  object  to  be 
considered. 

The  three  of  us  walked  away  together,  Mr.  Ebling  picking 
his  way  with  some  displeasure  through  the  choking  dust  of  our 
Twelfth  Street. 

"Where  are  we  going,  Ted?  To  the  club?"  Knowlton  asked, 
as  I  kept  on  down  Twelfth  Street. 

"Mr.  Claybourne  was  kind  enough  to  suggest  that  the  three 
of  us  take  luncheon  with  him  at  his  residence.     I  thought  we 


WE   PASS   AN   ORDEAL  195 

could  walk  to  Myrtle  Boulevard  and  point  out  some  of  our 
important  plants  to  Mr.  Ebling  on  the  way.  Over  there,"  I 
said,  turning  to  Ebling,  "is  the  Deep  Harbor  Packing  Com- 
pany. Beyond  is  the  Lakeside  Casting  and  Manufacturing 
Company." 

"Good  God,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Ebling,  stumbling  over  an 
empty  tin  can  that  lay  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  Knowlton's 
grin  widened  and  deepened.  It  grew  positively  diabolic  as 
Mr.  Ebling  took  a  silk  handkerchief  from  his  sleeve  and  be- 
gan flicking  dust  from  his  spats. 

"Don't  they  ever  water  this  confounded  street?"  he  asked. 

"Never,"  I  replied.     "Wait  until  August — this  is  nothing." 

"Is  there  no  way  we  can  ride?"  he  inquired  at  the  end  of  an 
interminable  block  of  noisy  and  dirty  buildings. 

"The  cars  don't  take  us  where  we  want  to  go,"  I  replied. 
"We  can  soon  turn  down  Wintergreen  Street,  and  then  we  are 
almost  there." 

Knowlton,  by  now,  was  signalling  me  to  be  careful,  but  I 
was  having  too  much  fun.  "That  is  a  model  plant,"  I  con- 
tinued, like  a  cathedral  guide.  "It's  the  Deep  Harbor 
Wrought  Iron  Works.  I  understand  that  their  power  plant 
holds  the  world's  record  for  the  number  of  pounds  of  water 
evaporated  per  pound  of  coal." 

Knowlton  made  a  noise  which  sounded  very  much  like  a 
suppressed  snort.  Mr.  Ebling  politely  adjusted  his  pince-nez 
and  gazed  at  the  brick  walls.  A  freight  train,  the  engine  spit- 
ting live  cinders  and  greasy  smoke,  clanged  up  the  street  be- 
tween us  and  the  model  plant.  Mr.  Ebling  shook  cinders 
from  his  light  grey  Fedora  hat,  and  wiped  smut  from  his  eyes. 

I  took  mercy  upon  him  at  this  point  and  turned  down  a 
side  street  leading  toward  the  residence  section. 

"Really,"  Mr.  Ebling  protested,  as  we  came  to  Myrtle 
Boulevard,  "I'm  not  presentable  enough  to  lunch  with  your 
friends.  Please  tell  me  the  way  back  to  the  hotel."  I  would 
not  hear  of  this,  so  he  again  made  such  a  toilet  as  he  could 
with  his  handkerchief.  I  rang  the  bell  at  the  Claybournes', 
and  in  we  went.     Mr.  Ebling's  affability  returned  at  once. 


196  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

Mrs.  Claybourne  was  gracious  and  Helen  deliciously  demure. 
She  sensed  a  joke  somewhere  from  my  manner,  but  could  not 
guess  what  it  was.  A  cocktail  made  Mr.  Ebling  expand.  I 
could  see  another  opinion  of  Deep  Harbor  visibly  forming 
itself  in  his  mind. 

"We've  just  come  from  the  plant,"  I  said,  as  we  sat  down. 

"Then  you  transferred  across  town  from  the  square,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Claybourne. 

"No,  we  walked,"  I  interrupted  hastily.  "I  wanted  to  point 
out  some  of  our  plants  to  Mr.  Ebling." 

"Walked!"  cried  Mrs.  Claybourne. 

"I  understood  we  could  not  get  here  except  by  walking,"  Mr. 
Ebling  said,  raising  his  eyebrows. 

"Ted,  you  must  be  crazy,"  Mr.  Claybourne  chuckled.  "You 
ride  from  your  plant  within  a  block  of  here  every  day." 

"Ted  thought  Mr.  Ebling  would  like  to  see  the  sights," 
Knowlton  spoke  in  my  defence. 

"Yes,  very  interesting  place  from  a  commercial  point  of 
view.     I  enjoyed  getting  a  general  idea  of  the  town." 

Helen  pinched  me  under  the  table,  and  I  let  out  an  unex- 
pected "ouch." 

"Helen!"  said  her  mother.     "What  are  you  doing?" 

"She  pinched  me  and  made  me  scream,"  I  said.  "It  isn't 
fair." 

"Those  two  children  are  engaged,  Mr.  Ebling,"  Mr.  Clay- 
bourne interposed.  "You'll  have  to  pardon  their  bad 
manners." 

Mr.  Ebling  lifted  his  eyebrows  again.  "Really?  I  congrat- 
ulate  you." 

After  luncheon  Mr.  Claybourne  took  over  Mr.  Ebling,  and 
Knowlton  carried  me  away  to  deposit  our  check  at  the  bank. 
It  was  part  of  the  agreement  that  Knowlton  and  I  should  work 
beside  the  new  management  for  a  month,  until  things  ran 
smoothly. 

"Don't  play  any  more  kid  tricks  on  Ebling,  Ted,"  Knowlton 
warned  me  as  we  parted  at  the  bank.  "You've  done  enough 
for  today." 


WE   PASS   AN   ORDEAL  197 


The  great  day  was  approaching;  sometimes  it  seemed  with 
great  rapidity,  and  again  I  thought  the  end  of  the  month  would 
never  come.  The  trousseau,  with  all  kinds  of  shopping  and 
trying  things  on,  took  up  a  great  deal  of  Helen's  time,  and  Mrs. 
Claybourne  banished  me  for  days  on  end.  I  did  a  lot  of 
work  in  the  laboratory,  with  the  new  chemist,  to  keep  occupied, 
but  I  found  it  hard  to  take  work  seriously. 

One  morning  Mrs.  Claybourne  informed  me  that  she  had 
made  an  appointment  for  me  at  eleven  to  call  upon  the  minister 
who  was  to  marry  us.  I  had  no  chance  to  find  out  from  Helen 
what  this  meant,  but  was  bundled  off  to  keep  the  engagement. 

I  entered  his  study  with  decidedly  mixed  feelings.  It  was 
reminiscent  of  going  to  the  dentist's.  He  was  a  tall,  sandy- 
haired  elderly  young  man,  with  a  fine  but  slightly  stagey  face. 
"Could  play  jeune  premiers  just  as  he  stands,"  I  thought,  as 
he  shook  my  hand  and  seated  me  in  a  deep  leathern  armchair. 

"So  you  and  Helen  are  to  be  married,"  he  began,  offering 
me  a  cigarette.  It  did  not  put  me  at  my  ease.  The  only  suit- 
able reply  I  could  think  of  was  "Yes — on  the  thirtieth."  I  lit 
the   cigarette,   hoping   inspiration   from   it   later. 

"It  is  a  solemn  step  you  are  taking,"  he  continued.  "Are 
you  sure  you  have  thoroughly  searched  your  hearts?" 

"If  you  mean,  do  we  love  each  other,  I  think  there  is  no 
doubt  of  it,"  I  answered,  the  bristles  on  my  back  rising  a 
trifle. 

"Did  you  know  I  went  to  your  college?"  he  asked,  shifting 
the  attack. 

"No.     What  was  your  class?" 

"Before  your  time,  I  think."  He  went  on  to  tell  me  some 
reminiscences  of  Hilltown  in  his  day.  He  had  been  a  'varsity 
half-back,  and  I  remembered  now  the  tradition  of  him  that 
came  down  to  our  crowd.  I  was  annoyed  to  discover  that  I 
was  beginning  to  feel  at  ease.  At  last  we  reached  the  point. 
Would  I  go  to  communion  with  Helen  the  Sunday  before  our 
marriage? 

I  did  not  know  what  to  say.     I  did  not  wish  to  hurt  Mrs. 


198  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

Claybourne's  feelings,  but  I  did  not  see  how  I  could,  in 
honesty.     I  put  my  difficulty  to  him. 

"My  mother  belongs  to  the  Church  of  England,"  I  explained, 
"and  it  is  the  only  one  I  have  ever  attended — except  cathe- 
drals on  the  Continent.     But  I  don't  know  what  I  believe." 

"Do  any  of  us?"  he  said  with  a  rather  wonderful  softness 
in  his  eyes.  "Do  we  have  to  believe  anything?  Isn't  faith 
enough?" 

I  thought  for  a  while.  "I  don't  wish  to  commit  perjury," 
1  said. 

He  smiled.  "You  have  faith  enough  to  believe  it  would 
be  perjury?" 

"Or  false  pretences.  Your  church — the  Episcopal — is  a 
great  tradition — one  I  respect  as  I  do  our  other  English- 
speaking  traditions — all  the  things  we  stand  for  that  make 
up  the  decent  things  of  this  world.  I  value  all  of  it  too 
much  to  lie  about  it.  Don't  you  see? — I  can't  come  to 
communion,   for   it  means   too   much   to   come   dishonestly." 

"You  are  very  young,  Edward,"  he  smiled  with  his  hand 
on  my  shoulder.     "Will  you  let  an  older  man  decide?" 

"I  wish  I  could,"  I  said. 

"If  Helen  comes,  you  surely  won't  stand  aside?" 

"But  will  she  come?     Have  you  asked  her?" 

His  face  clouded  for  a  moment  with  a  genuine  look  of  pain. 

"Don't  you  both  wish  to  marry  with  clean  hearts?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "and  we  shall.  That  is  why  I  can't 
lie  to  please  you." 

I  knew  my  retort  was  unfair,  but  I  wanted  him  also 
to  see  my  side.  He  stood  a  while  looking  down  at  me.  It 
was  clear  there  was  nothing  theatrical  about  this  man's  faith, 
however  like  an  actor  he  might  look.  I  knew  he  wanted  to 
reach  out  to  me  and  hold  me  with  the  faith  that  held  him. 
Yet  I  could  not  yield.  Had  he  perhaps  been  less  in  earnest, 
less  sincere,  I  might  have  offered  him  lip-service  for  the  sake 
of  peace.  His  very  strength  gave  me  strength  to  resist. 
It  had  to  be  all  or  nothing.     I  got  to  my  feet. 


WE   PASS   AN   ORDEAL  199 

"I  am  sorry,"  I  said,  holding  out  my  hand. 

"I  think  you  are,  Edward,"  he  answered,  taking  my  hand 
in  a  firm  grip.     "You'll  not  urge  Helen  against  it?" 

"Helen's  conscience  is  her  own." 

"Come,  that's  a  good  beginning.  And  because  you  are 
sorry  to  refuse,  I  have  still  hope."  He  smiled  at  me.  I 
shook  my  head. 

"At  any  rate,  you'll  come  to  church  next  Sunday?" 

"Yes" — and  with  this  compromise  we  parted. 

Helen's  friends  vied  with  one  another  in  giving  us  small 
dinner  parties  and  dances  during  the  last  two  weeks.  There 
was  no  limit  to  the  hospitality  of  Deep  Harbor,  once  you 
were  an  accepted  member  of  what  was  known  as  "the  right 
people."  If  I  dropped  into  Mr.  Claybourne's  down-town  club 
of  a  late  afternoon,  a  dozen  crowded  tables  would  invite 
me  to  sit  down,  with  the  greeting  "We're  just  ordering  a 
round,  Ted.  What  will  yours  be?"  I  knew  all  the  business 
men  and  the  younger  crowd  of  my  own  age,  but  none  of 
them  intimately.  Knowlton,  curiously  enough,  was  on  the 
same  footing  of  apparent  welcome,  but  he  had  not  been  in- 
vited to  join  either  the  country  club  or  the  down-town  club. 
Miss  Hershey's  refusal  to  vise  his  passport  kept  him  an 
outsider,  even  with  the  men.  No  one  disliked  him,  and 
there  was  a  general  appreciation  of  his  business  sagacity, 
but  he  simply  did  not  belong.  I  made  several  efforts  to 
break  down  these  bars  for  Knowlton.  It  was  useless;  they 
would  not  give  way. 

The  whole  social  organization  of  Deep  Harbor  was  an 
interesting  study  in  practical  democracy.  The  inner  circle 
of  business  men,  who  seemed  to  treat  a  barber  with  the  same 
intimate  friendliness  that  they  did  each  other,  nevertheless  were 
a  close  corporation  into  which  it  was  not  easy  to  gain  ad- 
mittance. The  women  were,  of  course,  even  more  strict. 
A  few  men  belonged  to  the  down-town  club  whom  we  never 
saw  at  dinners  or  dances.     There  were  only  three  streets  on 


200  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

which  it  was  permissible  to  live;  Mrytle  Boulevard  was  the 
chief  of  these,  but  two  more,  parallel  to  it,  were  allowable. 
On  the  connecting  cross  streets  the  newly  married  couples  of 
"the  right  people"  lived  in  two-family  houses,  against  the 
day  they  would  move  to  the  important  thoroughfare.  A 
house  anywhere  else  was  taboo,  unless  one  went  right  out 
into  the  country,  on  the  country-club  side  of  the  town.  It 
was  a  matter  of  considerable  uneasiness  to  Mrs.  Claybourne 
that  my  little  study  and  bedroom  was  on  the  wrong  side  of 
State  Street.  I  heard  from  her  that  that  had  been  also  one 
of  the  earlier  objections  to  "taking  me  up."  I  had,  however, 
stuck  to  my  rooms,  for  they  were  both  comfortable  and 
inexpensive. 

I  do  not  pretend  to  know  how  the  aristocracy  of  Deep  Harbor 
came  into  being.  Success,  which  implied  the  possession  of 
brains  as  a  corollary,  coupled  with  long  residence  in  the 
town,  appeared  to  be  the  general  basis  of  it.  On  the  other 
hand,  Knowlton  had  brains  and  had  made  a  success  of  his 
work;  yet  he  was  excluded.  Furthermore,  the  men  all  ad- 
mitted that  he  was  "a  thorough  good  fellow"  and  "a  good 
mixer,"  as  they  expressed  it.  I  could  see  no  logic  in  keeping 
him  out.  The  essence  of  an  aristocracy,  though,  is  the  absence 
of  any  logical  premise  for  its  elections.  My  position,  of 
course,  was  solely  owing  to  the  Claybournes. 

But  I  must  not  permit  my  reflections  on  the  social  mys- 
teries of  Deep  Harbor  to  interrupt  too  long  the  narrative  of 
events.  A  day  came  when  our  wedding  was  but  three  more 
days  away.  It  was  the  last  time  Helen  and  I  could  ride  to- 
gether over  the  hills.  The  final  hours,  according  to  Mrs. 
Claybourne,  were  to  be  spent  in  such-  frenzied  preparations 
as  would  entirely  forbid  my  presence  at  the  house,  to  say 
nothing  of  riding.  We  determined  to  make  the  most  of 
this  ride.  We  packed  a  luncheon,  bought  down-town, 
summoned  Leonidas,   and  rode  forth. 

We  went  slowly,  a  little  stunned  by  the  fact  that  this  was 
our  last  ride.     Up  the  hill,  past  "Henery"  Tyler's  Five  Mile 


WE  PASS   AN   ORDEAL  201 

Farm,  was  our  way,  for  we  wanted  to  retrace  all  the  steps 
of  that  day  which  had  opened  our  eyes.  We  stopped  at 
the  Tylers'  for  a  word  of  greeting.  "Henery"  was  not  at 
home — he  was  "in  the  city  somewheres,  most  likely  as  not 
wastin'  his  time,"  but  Mrs.  Tyler  was  delighted  to  see  us, 
in  spite  of  her  momentary  bitterness  on  the  subject  of 
"Henery." 

"He'll  be  down-right  sorry  to  miss  you  young  folks," 
she  said.  "It's  mighty  nice  of  you  to  come  'way  out  here 
to  say  good-bye.  But  Henery's  always  gallivantin'  round  when 
he  ought  to  be  at  home  'tending  to  the  farm.  Men  is  rest- 
less creatures  anyway,  Miss  Helen.  Won't  you  come  in  and 
set  in  the  parlour?  I've  got  some  new  milk  cooling  out  in  the 
shed." 

We  accepted  and  dismounted. 

"Walk  right  in  and  make  yourselves  to  home.  I  guess 
you  better  leave  the  dog  outside.  Dogs  track  up  a  house 
so." 

With  a  hasty  apology  for  her  thoughtlessness,  Helen  tied 
Leonidas  to  the  fence.  We  entered  the  familiar  little  room 
with  its  horsehair  furniture  and  the  conch  shells  in  a  glass 
case,  and  sat  on  the  very  sofa  where  Helen  had  lain  that 
evening  with  a  wrenched  knee.  Mrs.  Tyler  disappeared  in 
search  of  the  milk.  In  a  few  minutes  she  returned  with 
milk,  a  plate  of  cookies,  and  a  jar  of  apple-butter. 

"Kind  of  warm  today,"  she  rattled  on,  busy  with  her 
offering  of  hospitality,  "but  I  guess  we've  got  to  expect  a 
little  hot  weather  in  July.  Milk's  mighty  refreshing  on  a 
warm  day,  'specially  if  you  been  exercisin'.  Help  yourself 
to  the  apple-butter,  Miss  Helen.  It's  a  good  spread  on 
cookies." 

We  sat  and  ate,  grateful  for  her  genuine  friendliness.  Her 
cookies  would  have  taken  a  prize  anywhere. 

"Seems  like  it  was  only  yesterday,  Miss  Helen,  when  you 
used  to  be  in  short  dresses  and  drive  out  by  here  with  your 
father  on  the  way  to  the  old  cider  mill.     And  to  think  of  you 


202  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

gettin'  married  and  goin'  off  across  the  ocean  to  live!  Must 
be  pretty  hard  on  your  mother  to  lose  her  daughter  that  way. 
'Tain't  as  if  you  was  to  have  your  home  across  the  street.  I 
never  had  any  children,  so  I  ain't  had  to  suffer.  Sometimes 
I  think  it's  a  blessin'  when  I  hear  of  the  goings-on  of  the 
young  folk  today.  Well,  you  never  know  how  things  might 
have  been.  Takes  all  my  time  to  keep  up  with  what  is. 
It's  the  Lord's  will,  I  tell  Henery — He  knows  best.  Take 
another  glass  of  milk,  Miss  Helen.  There's  plenty  more 
where  that  come  from.  Feed's  gettin'  scarce,  though.  It 
dries  up  in  this  weather." 

We  chatted  awhile  with  Mrs.  Tyler — perhaps  it  would  be 
more  accurate  to  say  that  we  inserted  with  difficulty  monosyl- 
lables at  intervals  into  her  monologue — and  finally  persuaded 
her  to  let  us  go. 

A  little  further  up  the  road  we  paused  again  at  what  we 
thought  was  about  the  spot  where  Helen's  horse  had  fallen 
with  her.  We  slid  off  our  saddles  and  sat  on  the  bank  by 
the  roadside,  staring  at  the  patch  of  dusty  road  where  the 
miracle  had  been  revealed  to  us. 

"It  seems  years  and  years  ago,  Ted,"  Helen  whispered.  "I 
can't  remember  very  much  back  of  it.  I  just  feel  as  if  we 
had  always  known  each  other." 

"In  Avalon  a  day  is  a  thousand  years,"  I  whispered  back 
as  she  put  her  head  against  my  shoulder.  "Count  up  the 
number  of  days  and  see  how  many  thousand  years  we  have 
lived." 

Deep  Harbor  lay  in  a  smoky  haze  below  us,  and  the  lake 
beyond  shimmered  blue  and  silver  in  the  July  sun.  The 
yellow  road  went  straight  down  the  hill  toward  the  town. 
Across  the  distant  fields  the  steam  of  a  passing  train  trailed 
across  the  tops  of  the  trees.  I  watched  Helen's  grey  eyes 
staring  at  each  familiar  detail  of  her  home — for  the  whole 
lay  spread  at  our  feet.  The  grey  deepened  and  turned  a 
little  misty  at  last. 

"Forgive  me,  Ted,"  she  said,  clinging  tightly  to  me,  "but 


WE   PASS   AN   ORDEAL  203 

it  hurts  a  little  to  go,  even  with  you."  I  kissed  her  wet  eyes 
and  said  nothing.  "I  love  you,  Ted.  I  love  you,"  and  she 
sobbed  in  my  arms. 

We  ate  our  luncheon  in  the  clearing  by  the  wood.  It 
was  too  hot  for  a  camp  fire,  and,  as  the  sandwiches  had 
melted,  Leonidas  de  la  Patte  Jaune  ate  more  than  we  did. 
Helen  was  back  in  her  usual  mood  of  high  content.  Her 
laugh,  at  some  clumsy  antic  of  Leonidas  or  some  word  of 
mine,  rang  again  and  again  through  the  solitude  of  our  hiding 
place.  The  coming  of  dusk  and  the  mosquitoes  drove  us  out 
at  last. 

"Another  whole  day  of  perfect  happiness,  Ted,"  she  con- 
fided, leaning  across  to  me  from  her  saddle. 

Only  Mrs.  Claybourne  was  displeased;  we  were  late  for 
dinner. 


And  then  the  great  day  came.  I  had  thrown  one  last 
defiance  in  Miss  Hershey's  teeth  by  selecting  Knowlton  to 
be  my  best  man.  In  spite  of  the  grin  he  grinned  when  I 
asked  him,  I  saw  that  secretly  he  was  pleased — perhaps  a 
little  moved.  He  came  round  to  my  rooms  early  in  the 
morning  to  lend  me  aid  and  comfort,  although  the  wedding 
was  not  to  be  until  two  o'clock. 

"Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip,  Ted,"  was  his  greeting,  as  he  un- 
packed a  breakfast  of  sorts  from  various  pockets.  He  would 
not  hear  of  my  going  out  for  breakfast.  "Shall  I  make  some 
coffee?"  he  asked,  as  he  took  my  alcohol  lamp  apart.  "Here's 
a  cantaloupe,  just  off  the  ice,"  and  he  banged  a  melon  down 
on  the  table.     "Got  a  knife?" 

I  sat  up  in  my  pyjamas  and  surveyed  his  preparations. 

"Fm  not  an  invalid,  Knowlton,"  I  protested,  as  he  tried  to 
make  a  slice  of  toast  over  a  gas  jet.  "I  don't  know  what 
you  conceive  the  functions  of  a  best  man  to  be,  but  I 
did  not  ask  for  cooking  to  be  included  in  the  specifications. 
In  fact,  I'm  not  certain  that  even  Shaefer's  wouldn't  manage 
breakfast  better." 


204  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"Go  to  hell,  Ted.  I  learned  to  cook  before  you  were 
born,"  was  his  rejoinder. 

"That  puts  me  under  no  obligation  to  eat  it,"  I  retorted, 
"especially  as  I  wasn't  present." 

"Shave  and  shut  up,"  he  replied,  unmoved.  Another 
slice  of  bread  was  suspended  over  the  gas  jet.  I  made  my 
toilet  leisurely  and,  at  the  end,  ate  a  slice  of  his  asphyxiated 
toast.  The  coffee  was  excellent,  thanks  to  the  ingeniousness 
of  the  machine  that  made  it.  So  was  the  cantaloupe — but 
Knowlton  had  not  made  that,  either. 

"Knowlton,"  I  said,  with  breakfast  over,  "when  you  make 
toast  for  me,  you  try  my  friendship  far." 

''You're  an  ungrateful  hound.  I've  got  your  railroad 
tickets  to  New  York.  Transportation  for  two."  He  empha- 
sized the  latter  statement.  "By  No.  46 — the  5.02  P.  M., 
Eastern  standard  time."  Deep  Harbor  used  both  Eastern 
and  Western  time. 

"Keep  the  tickets  until  I  want  them.  One  thing  more. 
Do  you  expect  me  to  sit  here  until  two  o'clock  talking  to 
you?" 

Knowlton's  ancient  grin  crinkled  his  eyes.  "A  little  jumpy, 
aren't  we?  Well,  I  don't  blame  you.  Listen  to  today's 
Eagle — it  will  soothe  you.  'A  marriage  is  to  be  solemnized 
this  afternoon,  at  two  o'clock  at  St.  Asaph's  Episcopal 
Church,  Myrtle  Boulevard,  between  Helen,  daughter  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Claybourne  of  Myrtle  Boulevard,  and  Edward  Jevons, 
of  London,  England.  The  social  prominence  of  the  young 
people — Mr.  Claybourne  is  one  of  the  most  prominent  busi- 
ness men  of  our  lake  city,  the  president  of  the  Claybourne 
Manufacturing  Company,  of  Twelfth  Street,  and  Mr.  Jevons, 
the  prospective  groom,  is  favourably  known  for  his  connection 
with  the  Deep  Harbor  Manufacturing  Company,  lately  ac- 
quired by  a  New  York  corporation — lends  unusual  interest 
to  this  affair.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Osborough  will  officiate.  Decora- 
tions by  Deering.  A  reception  to  a  few  intimate  friends 
will  follow  at  the  Claybourne  residence.  Catering  by 
Podalsky  and  Rodenheim.'  " 


WE   PASS   AN   ORDEAL  205 

I  threw  a  book  at  Knowlton,  which  he  skilfully  dodged. 

"That's  nothing  to  what  Miss  Barnes,  who  does  the  social 
notes  for  the  Eagle,  will  say  tomorrow.  You  will  be  worth 
9t  least  three  quarters  of  a  column — not  front-page  stuff, 
of  course,  but  the  feature  story  under  'Society,'  opposite 
the  woman's  page,"  he  continued,  ignoring  my  threats. 

At  twelve  I  insisted  upon  going  out  to  lunch.  Knowlton 
stuck  with  me.  In  the  grill  room  of  the  Otooska  House 
— a  lonesome  spot,  thronged  only  at  night — we  had  a 
steak,  with  which  Knowlton  drank  a  glass  of  milk. 

"I'm  sorry,  Knowlton,"  I  said  over  cigarettes,  "that  you 
won't  accept  my  father's  offer  and  try  your  luck  in  England." 

"I  appreciate  that,  Ted.  But  I  guess  I  belong  over  here. 
I'm  going  to  take  my  bonus  money  and  set  up  for  my- 
self as  a  consultant  in  New  York.  A  man  better  stick 
to  what  he  knows.  If  I  went  to  London,  I'd  have  to  learn 
all  over  again.  It's  different  with  you — you  are  going  home. 
I'm  going  to  stay  here." 

A  little  before  two,  one  of  Deep  Harbor's  most  elaborate 
"hacks"  deposited  Knowlton  and  me  at  the  awning-covered 
approach  to  the  portal  of  St.  Asaph's.  I  remember  that 
there  were  a  few  curious  onlookers  standing  on  the  pave- 
ment outside,  and  inside,  there  seemed  to  be  music  and  a 
lot  of  vegetation.  Beyond  these  blurred  impressions  I  can 
recollect  nothing  until  I  was  aware  that  Helen  was  coming 
down  the  aisle  on  her  father's  arm.  It  flashed  across  me 
that  Mrs.  Claybourne  must  be  weeping  somewhere  near. 
Helen  looked  at  me  steadily  through  her  veil,  a  deep  and 
wonderful  grey  in  her  eyes  as  she  came  on,  and  I  know 
I  wanted  to  cry  out,  "Oh,  damn  this  ceremony — let's  bolt 
for  the  station,  dearest."  We  did  as  we  had  been  instructed 
— just  what,  I  don't  know,  but  the  Reverend  Mr.  Osborough's 
voice  got  under  way  promptly.  It  was  in  the  air  above  me, 
I  felt.  Helen  wore  a  wreath  of  orange  blossoms — not  un- 
usual  for    a   bride,    of   course — but   I    loathed   their   scent, 


206  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

as  I  had  ever  since  the  day  of  my  small-boyhood  when  a 
flower  girl  under  Charing  Cross  station  in  London  had  thrust 
some  beneath  my  nose. 

The  questions  were  beginning,  and  I  made  an  effort  to 
pull  myself  together.  What  was  my  cue?  I  heard  Osborough 
whispering  something  under  his  breath.  I  had  missed  the 
first  response,  and  he  was  prompting  me.  Would  Knowlton 
grin?  I  couldn't  look  around.  I  stumbled  through  my  lines, 
and  Knowlton  came  forward  with  the  ring.,  Helen  was 
letter-perfect;  not  once  did  she  fluff  her  lines  or  miss  a  bit 
of  stasre  business.  I  admired  her  for  it.  We  had  to  kneel 
— side  by  side.  I  saw  the  ring  on  her  finger — it  must  be 
nearly  over.  We  got  up  again — "Now!"  I  thought.  No, 
Osborough  was  off  again.  What  was  this  about?  A  sermon 
specially  for  our  benefit — we  were  kneeling  before  the  altar. 
I  blinked  at  the  candles  to  avoid  looking  at  Osborough.  I 
had  hold  of  Helen's  hand.  I  felt  her  press  mine  gently. 
"She's  kept  her  head — I  knew  she  would!"  I  thought  in 
an  ecstasy  of  delight  over  her  self-control.  "Probably  knows 
everything  that's  happening."  Ah,  the  benediction  at  last 
— obviously  the  finale;  that  isn't  the  right  technical  word. 
We  were  standing  up — Helen  had  thrown  back  her  veil. 

"Kiss  me  quick,  Ted,  before  any  one  else  gets  to  me,"  I 
heard  her  say.  I  obeyed  with  great  speed.  Osborough  was 
next,  then  Knowlton — things  were  growing  confused  again, 
and  I'm  not  sure  of  my  facts.  There  was  a  fearful  uproar 
from  the  organ,  and  we  were  very  near  it.  We  started  back 
down  the  aisle,  Helen  on  my  arm.  Women  peered  into  our 
faces.  I  felt  that  there  were  a  great  many  persons  treading  on 
our  heels — bridesmaids,  some  of  them,  and  Knowlton  mixed 
up  with  them.  I  wanted  to  look  around,  but  a  strange  woman 
was  glaring  at  me  from  a  pew  near  at  hand.  What  had 
become  of  my  hat?  It  mysteriously  appeared  again  at  the 
door — out  of  the  void  a  hand  passed  it  to  me.  Helen  and 
I  were  wafted  into  a  carriage — I  am  certain  our  own 
legs  had  nothing  to  do  with  it — rice  and  confetti  fell  into 
our  laps — and  the  horses  started  with  a  jerk. 


WE   PASS   AN   ORDEAL  207 

"Ted,  we're  married,"  Helen  said,  and  laid  her  cheek 
against  mine.  I  closed  my  eyes  and  held  her  hand  tightly. 
Some  things  are  hard  to  realize.  There  was  a  clamour  in 
my  brain,  and  I  couldn't  think.  The  carriage  stopped.  The 
Claybourne  house  was  not  over  a  few  hundred  yards  from 
the  church. 

Knowlton  helped  us  out.  "How  the  devil  did  you  get 
here  ahead  of  us?"  I  asked  in  terrified  surprise.  His  grin 
returned.  It  was  reassuring,  like  finding  a  link  with  home 
when  lost  in  a  strange  place.  The  unseen  force  took  us  up 
the  steps  and  into  the  house — more  flowers  and  greens.  We 
were  made  to  stand  by  the  drawing-room  doors,  Knowlton 
close  behind  me.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Claybourne  were  next,  and 
there  were  embraces;  Mr.  Claybourne  shook  my  hand  and 
clapped  me  on  the  back.  Then  floods  of  people — Uncle 
Peter  and  his  wife,  with  bridesmaids  and  ushers.  The 
ushers  kissed  Helen,  and  I  had  to  kiss  the  bridesmaids.  One 
got  kissed  twice,  and  there  was  a  great  deal  of  laughter 
at  my  expense.  They  were  difficult  to  tell  apart.  In  the 
background  several  women  were  weeping.  After  it  did  not 
seem  possible  I  could  kiss  another  girl — for  all  and  sundry 
followed  the  bridesmaids,  while  Helen  was  kept  busy  by  the 
male  half  of  Deep  Harbor — we  sat  down  to  what  was  called 
a  breakfast. 

There  was  a  large  bride's  cake  and  champagne,  to  say 
nothing  of  Uncle  Peter's  speech.  It  was  a  funny  speech: 
that  is  to  say,  each  word  he  uttered  was  received  with  roars 
of  laughter.  I  don't,  myself,  remember  it.  Plate  after  plate 
of  various  foods  were  put  in  front  of  us  by  swarthy  foreign 
waiters,  and  whisked  away  again  before  I  got  around  to  eat.  I 
wasn't  hungry.  In  the  midst  of  a  particularly  noisy  dem- 
onstration I  became  aware  that  I  was  being  called  on  for 
a  speech. 

"Get  up,  Ted,"  Helen  whispered.  I  got  up,  and  my  teeth 
chattered,  but  no  words  flowed  through  them.  Knowlton 
handed  me  a  glass  of  champagne,  with  a  grin  floating  across 
it.     I   said   something;    great   applause   and    laughter.     This 


208  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

was  encouraging,  considering  I  hadn't  any  idea  what  I  had 
said.  I  went  on — more  applause.  I  pulled  Helen  to  her 
feet,  and  we  drank  from  the  same  glass  of  champagne  as  a 
climax.     Tremendous  hit!     We  sat  down. 

Helen  went  upstairs  to  change  to  a  travelling  frock.  From 
the  top  of  the  stairs  she  tossed  her  bridal  bouquet  to  the 
bridesmaids.  They  tore  it  apart  like  a  pack  of  hounds 
making  a  kill.  Knowlton  led  me  away  to  another  room  to 
dress,  as  a  policeman  might  help  a  blind  man  across  Pic- 
cadilly Circus.  Mysteriously  to  me,  I  found  my  own  dressing 
bag  there  and  all  my  things  laid  out.  Knowlton  sat  on 
the  bed  and  grinned  at  me  as  I  struggled  into  the  other 
clothes. 

"Pretty  good  for  a  somnambulist,"  he  conceded  when  I  had 
done. 

"Knowlton,"  I  said,  trying  my  best  to  make  my  true 
feelings  carry,  "I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  with- 
out you  today." 

"I  don't  either,"  he  grinned.  "It  was  my  toast  at  break- 
fast that  gave  you  the  strength  for  the  ordeal." 

He  produced  a  packet  of  papers.  "Now  you  are  coming 
out  of  your  trance  nicely,  I'll  give  you  these,"  he  went  on. 
"This  envelope,  which  is  green,  contains  your  railroad  tickets; 
this  blue  one,  your  steamer  tickets;  the  white  one,  the  checks 
for  your  baggage.     Get  that?" 

He  opened  my  coat  and  put  them  in  the  inside  pocket 
and  buttoned  me  up  again,  like  a  child.  "If  you  find  your 
mind  gone  on  the  train,  just  tell  the  conductor  to  search 
you." 

At  the  door  of  the  room  I  had  a  final  word  with  Mr. 
Claybourne.  Then  the  three  of  us  went  downstairs.  In 
a  few  minutes  Helen  appeared.  She  looked  more  beautiful 
in  her  tailor-made  travelling  dress  than  in  her  bridal  array. 
My  head  swam  again  when  I  went  to  her.  We  were  sur- 
rounded by  a  babel  of  voices,  and  Miss  Hershey  led  in  Mrs. 
Claybourne.  Every  one  was  going  to  the  station  to  see  us 
off.     Leonidas  was  howling  dismally  outside  from  the  centre 


WE   PASS   AN   ORDEAL  209 

of  a  large  crate  which  was  to  be  his  prison  as  far  as  New 
York.  On  this  one  point  Helen  was  adamant.  She  would  not 
go  to  England  without  Leonidas. 

The  preliminary  farewells  began,  and  even  Jane,  the  maid, 
joined  the  chorus  of  feminine  weepers.  The  Claybournes, 
Helen,  and  I  got  into  one  carriage;  Knowlton,  with  an  as- 
sortment of  bridesmaids,  followed  in  another.  More  rice  and 
confetti,  not  to  speak  of  old  shoes  tied  to  the  carriage 
by  white  ribbons.  We  were  not  to  be  spared  a  single  torture. 
The  crowd  at  the  station  were  delighted  with  our  arrival. 
Leonidas  and  his  cage  gave  the  final  touch.  Some  merry  wag, 
blast  his  eyes,  had  tied  a  large  bow  of  white  ribbon  to 
Leonidas'  collar.  There  was  no  time  to  remove  it,  for  the 
New  York  train  thundered  in  from  the  further  West,  and 
the  ivory  flashes  of  a  Pullman  porter  took  over  our  care. 
We  left  in  a  bedlam,  Mr.  Claybourne's  face  looking  rather 
solemnly  at  us,  Mrs.  Claybourne,  quite  overcome,  on  Miss 
Hershey's  shoulder,  and  Knowlton's  grin  frozen  half  way. 
Helen  and  I  waved  as  long  as  they  were  in  sight,  then  turned 
around  in  our  seats  and  faced  each  other.  .  .  . 

Two  days  later  the  Cunarder  backed  out  from  her  dock 
and  our  voyage  began.  Helen  and  I  stood  on  the  top 
deck,  where  we  could  see  the  tugs  turn  the  ship  around. 
The  fantastic  skyline  of  Manhattan  loomed  over  us. 

"Lady  Grey  Eyes,  I  love  you,"  I  whispered,  as  our  boat 
went   slowly   down   stream.     "Are  you   glad?" 

"My  darling!"  floated  from  her  lips,  no  more  than  a  breath. 
I  had  to  lean  close  to  her  to  hear.     "I'm  so  happy,  Ted!" 

We  stood  upon  the  upper  deck  until  dusk,  watching  the 
coast  fade  into  the  haze.  At  last  it  had  gone,  save  for  one 
far  flashing  light.     We  were  at  sea. 

At  dinner  we  found  ourselves  seated  opposite  a  dear  old 
English  lady,  who  took  one  look  at  Helen  and  then  and 
there  resolved  to  "mother"  her.  We  had  hoped,  half  seriously, 
that  we  could  escape  passing  as  bride  and  groom.     No  sooner, 


210  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

however,  had  we  taken  our  seats  than  a  delighted  steward 
brought  in  a  large  basket  of  white  roses,  set  off  with 
white  ribbons.  This  he  placed  in  front  of  Helen.  It  bore 
a  card,  with  this  legend:  "From  the  Deep  Harbor  gang." 
The  old  English  lady  said,  "How  sweet  of  your  friends, 
my  dear."  I  had  another  opinion  of  their  conduct.  I  didn't 
mind  so  much,  for  Helen  was  loveliest  when  she  blushed. 

After  dinner  we  sat  and  talked  a  bit  with  the  old  English 
lady — a  Mrs.  Parsons  from  High  Wycombe.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  liked  to  hear  her  call  Helen  "my  dear."  It  was  a  good 
omen.  She  asked  us  a  hundred  questions  which,  somehow, 
we  did  not  mind  at  all.  Helen  poured  out  her  heart  to  her. 
It  was  "Ted  this"  and  "Ted  that"  until  I  threatened  to  put 
my  hand  over  her  mouth. 

"I  shall  call  you  Edward  and  Helen,"  Mrs.  Parsons  an- 
nounced decisively.  "It  would  be  positively  ridiculous  to 
call  two  such  babies  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jevons.  How  old  are 
you,  Helen?" 

"Nineteen,"  said  Helen  with  absolutely  her  prettiest  blush. 

"And  you,  Edward?" 

"Twenty-four,"  I  confessed,  as  Helen  most  brazenly  leaned 
against  my  shoulder. 

"What  your  mothers  were  thinking  of,  I  can't  imagine," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Parsons.  "You  shouldn't  be  out  without  a 
nurse." 

When  we  went  to  our  cabin  Helen  said:  "I  like  to  have 
people  nice  to  us,  don't  you,  Ted?" 

"I  love  to  have  them  nice  to  you,"  I  answered. 

A  few  days  later  Helen  and  I  stood  far  forward  on  the  boat 
deck,  straining  our  eyes  for  the  first  glimpse  of  land.  She 
was  all  excitement,  dancing  up  and  down  with  little  steps 
and  squeezing  my  arm  in  between  times.  "It  is  just  like 
one  of  our  fairy  stories,  Ted,"  she  whispered,  her  face  so  close 
that  the  sea  wind  blew  a  damp  lock  of  her  hair  across  my 
eyes.     From  the  ship's  bridge  a  cynical  first  officer,  telescope 


WE   PASS  AN  ORDEAL  211 

under  arm,  smiled  down  at  us.  Helen  turned  toward  him  and 
called:  "Oh,  please  tell  us  as  soon  as  you  see  anything." 
He  nodded  and  sent  a  sailor  down  to  us  with  a  pair  of 
binoculars.  Porpoises  were  leaping  and  playing  about  the 
ship;  the  sea  gulls  were  beginning  to  accumulate  off  the  stern. 
Helen  tried  to  focus  the  glasses,  but  her  hands  shook  so  with 
joy  and  excitement,  I  had  to  help  her. 

Suddenly  the  look-out  called  from  the  crow's  nest  on  the 
mast.  According  to  the  experts  of  the  sea  the  noise  he  made 
should  have  been  "Land-ho!"  but  it  did  not  sound  like  any- 
thing articulate.  We  could  still  see  nothing,  for  we  were 
lower  down.  The  officer  on  the  bridge  pointed  the  direction 
for  us;  Helen  and  I  kept  snatching  the  binoculars  from  one 
another.  Then  the  top  of  a  light-house  stuck  up  above  the 
horizon.     We  could  hear  a  scurrying  of  passengers. 

"How  disappointing!"  exclaimed  Helen.  "I  thought  we 
would  see  white  chalk  cliffs." 

"This  is  Ireland— not  England,"  I  answered.  "The  Old 
Head  of  Kinsale  is  dark  rock  a  few  miles  behind  the  light- 
house. If  the  Irish  cliffs  were  like  the  English,  Irishmen 
would  paint  them  a  different  colour." 

It  was  not  long  before  we  were  close  enough  to  the  coast 
to  see  the  emerald  of  the  fields  at  the  summit  of  the  rocky 
cliffs.  A  line  of  white  edged  the  meeting  of  the  black  rocks 
with  the  blue  of  the  sea.  Helen  drew  a  long  breath  as  she 
gazed  at  the  startling  beauty  of  the  Irish  coast. 

'Ted!     Ted!"  she  whispered.     "It  makes  me  want  to  cry." 

Passengers  crowded  about  us,  and  the  wise  man  who  knows 
everything  began  explaining  in  a  loud  voice  to  all  and 
sundry. 

"Ted,  take  me  away.  Isn't  there  somewhere  on  this  boat 
that  we  can  see  all  by  ourselves?" 

We  found  a  cranny,  further  aft,  between  two  life  boats. 
Helen  rested  her  elbows  on  the  rail,  her  chin  in  her  hands, 
and  gazed,  the  starlight  of  her  eyes  shining. 

"Don't  speak  to  me  for  a  while,  darling,"  she  said.  "I 
want  to  look." 


212  I  WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

I  studied  the  curve  of  the  back  of  her  neck,  where  the 
light  brown  hair  played  little  tricks  of  its  own  while  her  head 
was  bent  forward.     She  was  unconscious  of  what  I  was  doing. 

"Put  your  arm  around  me,  Ted.  No  one  can  see,"  she 
sighed  from  between  her  hands.     "Don't  talk." 

I  obeyed.  I  never  touched  her  that  it  did  not  seem  a 
miracle  that  I  should  be  permitted  such  liberty.  It  was  like 
touching  something  exquisitely  delicate  and  sacred.  Not  that 
she  was  "petite"  in  the  sense  in  which  that  banal  word  is 
generally  used;  on  the  contrary,  she  was  tall  and  of  athletic 
figure.  It  was  her  beauty  that  seemed,  nevertheless,  dainty  and 
fragile.  "You'll  spoil  me,  Ted,  if  you  make  such  a  fuss  over 
me,"  she  had  once  laughingly  warned  me. 

We  were  wakened  from  our  reverie  by  the  hearty  voice 
of  Mrs.  Parsons  behind  us.  "That  is  Ireland  over  there,  my 
children,"  she  said,  with  the  air  of  one  giving  valuable  and 
hitherto  unknown  information.  Helen  and  I  started  apart 
guiltily.  We  had  not  yet  been  married  long  enough  to  get 
over  the  self-consciousness  of  an  engaged  couple.  Mrs. 
Parsons  unrolled  a  map,  with  great  difficulty  because  of  the 
wind.     We  were  in  for  a  lecture.     "This  is  where  we  are," 

She  indicated  a  spot  which  would  be  about  sixty  miles  in 
circumference,  out  in  the  open  sea.  "Up  there  is  Queenstown. 
That  is  where  we  are  going.  Then  Liverpool  is  up  there, 
just  back  of  Anglesea." 

Helen  said  the  right  thing,  while  her  eyes  shot  a  look  at 
me  which  only  I  could  understand. 

"See,  I've  brought  you  some  chocolates,  my  dear,"  and 
Mrs.  Parsons  fished  in  the  jumbled  depths  of  a  handbag. 
She  handed  them  to  Helen.  "Mind  you  don't  forget  to  come 
down  for  tea.  I'll  send  the  steward  when  it's  quite  ready," 
and  she  was  off. 

Helen  laughed  a  laugh  that  was  a  joy  to  hear.  "She'll  be 
bringing  us  bottles  of  warm  milk  next.  But  she's  a  dear, 
Ted." 

After  tea  we  returned  to  the  boat  deck.  The  ship  was  ap- 
proaching Queenstown  harbour.     There  may  be  more  beau- 


WE   PASS   AN   ORDEAL  213 

tiful  spots  on  the  surface  of  this  earth  than  this  harbour,  but 
if  so,  Helen  and  I  had  never  seen  any  of  them. 

"Ted,  did  you  ever  dream  of  such  green  grass!  And  look 
at  those  little  white  houses — like  fairy  houses,  Ted!  And 
the  trees !     What  a  funny  shape  they  are,  Ted.     Look  at  them." 

"I  am  looking,  my  dearest."  I  did  not  dare  say  what  it 
meant  to  me  to  be  nearing  home.  I  thought  it  would  sound 
disloyal  to  Helen  and  to  the  happiness  we  were  bringing  with 
us. 

"There  is  an  English  cruiser,  flying  the  white  ensign,"  I 
exclaimed — a  queer  feeling  inside  me  at  the  sight  of  her  flag. 

"Is  that  an  English  flag?  I  thought  the  English  flag  was 
red,  with  a  union  Jack  in  the  corner." 

"Helen!"  I  cried,  in  a  voice  more  shocked  than  I  realized 
it  would  sound.     "You  don't  know  the  white  ensign?" 

"Ted,  how  can  I  possibly  know  all  your  beastly  old  flags?" 
she  flared  up.  "Please  don't  look  at  me  like  that,  Ted. 
What  have  I  done?" — and  a  mist  gathered  quickly  in  her 
grey  eyes. 

"I  forgot,  dearest,"  I  said,  slipping  my  arm  tightly  around 
her.     "Please  forgive  me.     But  that  flag  means  we  are  home." 

Her  soft  hand  found  mine  and  clung.  "Home,  Ted,"  she 
whispered,  "our  home."  She  looked  at  the  cruiser  lying  near 
us.  The  ensign  fluttered  jauntily  in  the  wind.  "We  are 
Americans,  Ted,"  she  said  after  a  long  pause.  "I  wonder 
if  we  ought  to  feel  the  way  we  do?" 

"The  best  way  is  to  love  both  our  homes,  Helen  sweet- 
heart." 

She  looked  up  at  me  and  smiled:  "Love  is  enough,  Ted," 
she  said  softly — and  we  both  remembered  the  old  clearing  by 
the  wood  back  of  Deep  Harbor,  where  we  had  read  William 
Morris  together. 


Chapter    Thirteen 

we    arrive    and    look    forward    to 
another    arrival 

MY  father,  mother,  and  sister  met  the  steamer  train  at 
Euston.  We  tumbled  out  of  our  compartment  a  little 
breathless  over  the  prospect  of  another  ordeal.  We 
seemed  hopelessly  mixed  up  with  luggage  and  steamer  ac- 
quaintances saying  good-byes,  when  I  saw  my  father  pushing 
through  the  crowd  toward  us.  He  hardly  looked  at  me;  it 
was  Helen  he  wanted  to  see.  My  mother  and  sister  were 
close  behind.  It  gave  me  quite  a  shock  to  note  that  my 
sister  had  her  hair  up  and  was  wearing  long  dresses.  She 
looked  almost  as  old  as  Helen,  as  indeed  she  was.  The 
family  kissed  Helen  thoroughly,  and  my  sister  clung  tena- 
ciously to  me.  I  couldn't  think  of  much  to  say,  except  "Well, 
here  we  are." 

"What  a  frightful  Yankee  twang  you  have,  Ted,"  ex- 
claimed my  sister.  We  made  our  way  toward  one  of  the 
London  and  North  Western's  private  omnibuses. 

"Ted!  Please  don't  forget  our  trunks,"  Helen  cautioned, 
as  I  was  about  to  climb  in.  My  father  went  with  me  to 
the  luggage  van,  a  porter  following.  We  left  Helen  chatter- 
ing away  at  mother  and  sister  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing 
in  the  world  as  embarrassment. 

"I  like  the  look  of  her,  Ted,"  my  father  said. 

"I'm  not  surprised,"  I  answered,  trying  to  imitate  one 
of  Knowlton's  grins.  We  fished  out  the  trunks  and  started 
back. 

"Pleasant  passage?"  my  father  inquired.  "Helen  wasn't 
seasick,  I  hope." 

214 


WE  ARRIVE   AND   LOOK   FORWARD       215 

"A  bit  off  her  feed  one  day — remarkably  smooth  voyage." 

"Ah — it's  certain  to  be  a  good  crossing  in  August." 

"Quite,"  I  replied. 

We  got  into  the  omnibus,  after  Helen  had  completed  tak- 
ing the  census  of  the  luggage. 

"Don't  trust  Ted  with  anything  like  that,"  my  mother 
lemarked.     "He's  left  my  boxes  all  over  the  Continent." 

I  sat  beside  Helen,  for  I  wanted  to  watch  her  face  when 
she  first  saw  the  streets  of  London. 

"Ted,  look!"  she  cried,  as  we  emerged  from  the  classic 
gateway  of  Euston  Station,  "there's  a  huge  horse  with  fluffy 
feet." 

"It's  a  Clydesdale — aren't  they  beauties?" 

"I  never  saw  such  a  splendid  horse." 

My  mother  was  sitting  quietly  watching  us.  I  am  afraid 
she  felt  I  had  gone  a  long  way  from  her — or  perhaps  it  was 
the  effect  of  Leonidas.  We  had  forgotten  to  warn  the  family 
he  was  coming.  The  first  sight  of  Leonidas  was  always  a 
shock  to  any  one.  Even  my  sister,  who  was  thoroughly  doggy, 
had  recoiled  when  he  smiled  at  her  at  the  station.  Helen 
was  finding  a  succession  of  wonders  through  the  omnibus 
window. 

"We've  taken  a  small  house  out  Kensington  way,  where 
you'll  live  with  us  for  the  present,  Ted."  I  looked  up  in 
surprise  at  my  father's  words. 

"It  will  be  much  more  economical  and  in  every  way 
better,  until  Helen  learns  English  housekeeping,"  my  mother 
said. 

"I  suppose  you've  some  work  for  me  to  do?"  I  asked 
anxiously,  for  I  thought  I  saw  the  first  trace  of  a  cloud 
on  Helen's  face. 

"We'll  talk  about  that  later,"  my  father  replied,  with  a 
desire  to  change  the  subject  obvious  in  his  tone. 

It  is  a  long  drive  from  Euston  to  Kensington.  I  sat  close 
to  Helen  and  pointed  out  the  streets  and  buildings  we  passed. 
Her  interest  was  keen,  eager,  for  the  panorama  contained 
many  places  that  we  had  talked   about — the  Marble  Arch, 


216  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

Park  Lane,  Hyde  Park  Corner,  Knightsbridge.  Names  were 
changing  into  realities  before  her  eyes — and  all  the  while 
my  sister  and  mother  sat  studying  Helen.  I  was  extremely 
quick  to  detect  my  mother's  unexpressed  opinions  and  im- 
pressions, chiefly  because  I  had  differed  so  often  with  them 
that  instinct  had  taught  me  how  to  anticipate,  when  possible, 
her  displeasure.  And  I  could  feel,  with  absolute  certainty, 
as  our  bus  trotted  on  down  Knightsbridge,  that  she  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  be  hostile.  "Very  well,"  I  thought  to  my- 
self, "Helen  and  I  must  fight  it  out  alone,  then."  My  father 
was  looking  out  the  rear  window;  I  recognized  from  his 
attitude  that  he  had  sensed  the  same  thing  I  had.  Perhaps 
the  news  had  not  been  so  well  received  as  letters  had  led 
me  to  suppose.  I  was  hoping  desperately  that  the  sensitive 
girl  by  my  side  would  not  notice  the  growing  tension  in  the 
air. 

It  was  a  pleasant  house  before  which  we  stopped.  There 
were  a  few  shrubs  in  front,  and  the  yellow  cream  stucco 
residence  appeared  to  hint  at  a  bit  of  garden  behind.  It 
was  on  a  quiet  side  street  and  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  row 
of  other  houses  exactly  like  it. 

Chitty,  now  three  years  our  man-of-all-work,  and  Sims, 
my  mother's  maid,  received  us.  Chitty  drew  himself  up 
and  saluted  me,  a  thing  he  always  did  on  my  homecomings. 
He  had  been  an  officer's  batman.  "Glad  to  see  you  home, 
sir,"  he  said. 

"Thanks,  Chitty.  Kiddies  all  well?"  He  had  a  numerous 
family  who  lived  out. 

"Thank  you,  sir.     Every  one  quite  fit." 

"It's  good  to  see  you  back  again,  master  Ted,"  Sims  con- 
tributed. Chitty  and  Sims  attacked  the  pile  of  luggage  on 
the  roof  of  the  bus,  after  a  preliminary  run-in  between  Chitty 
and  the  driver  concerning  the  best  method  to  pursue.  There 
was  a  new  housemaid,  who  curtseyed  to  us  as  we  entered. 

"Your  rooms  are  up  here,  Edward,"  said  my  mother. 
Helen  and  I  followed  her  upstairs  hand  in  hand.     My  sister 


WE   ARRIVE   AND   LOOK   FORWARD       217 

tagged  along  in  the  rear.  We  were  shown  into  a  cozy  little 
bedroom,  with  a  cozier  study  off  it.  The  windows  looked 
out  into  the  bit  of  garden  which  I  had  guessed  was  there. 
All  my  books  and  furniture  were  arranged  as  I  had  always 
had  them,  but  in  the  bedroom  there  were  several  new  things 
for  Helen.  A  little  box  of  a  dressing  room  completed  our 
quarters,  which  were  tiny  but  ours.  Helen's  eyes  lighted  as 
she  looked  around.  Then  she  walked  straight  up  to  my  mother 
and  kissed  her.  My  mother  received  it  coldly,  making  no 
return.  Helen  was  so  delighted  with  all  that  had  been 
done  for  her  that  I  don't  think  she  noticed. 

"Are  you  pleased,  Ted?"  my  mother  asked. 

"Of   course,   mother.     Why   do   you   ask?" 

Chitty  arrived,  bowed  beneath  a  trunk.  My  mother  and 
sister  left  us.  The  total  of  our  baggage  swamped  our  little 
rooms.  It  was  all  in  at  last  and  the  door  closed.  The  be- 
lated Sims  arrived  with  hot  water,  just  as  Helen  had  seated 
herself  on  my  lap  in  the  study  for  a  talk. 

"Anything  else  I  can  fetch  you,  Mrs.  Ted?"  Sims  in- 
quired.    We  got  her  out  of  the  way. 

"Mrs.  Ted!"  Helen  cried  gleefully, — "what  a  delicious 
name  for  me!     I  love  it!" 

"Old  Sims  is  a  privileged  character,  dear.  She  is  one 
of  my  earliest  recollections.  She  is  also  the  family  safety- 
valve.     Every  one  curses  her  when  anything  goes  wrong." 

Helen  laughed.  "What  a  delightfully  absurd  country,  Ted. 
Imagine  a  Deep  Harbor  servant  being  any  one's  earliest  recol- 
lection." 

She  began  that  feminine  mystery  known  as  "changing," 
still  talking  to  me  over  her  shoulder. 

"Ted,  I'll  have  to  pinch  myself — I  can't  believe  I'm  awake. 
Is  it  all  really  true?" 

"Absolutely  true,"  I  answered,  kissing  her  mouth. 

"And  to  think  you  never  told  me  about  Chitty.  He's 
marvellous.     Where  did  you  get  him?" 

"He's   one   of   my   finds,"    I    answered.     "I   met   this   big 


218  1   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

chap  one  day  on  the  street — looking  f'or  work;.  An  ex- 
soldier  with  a  good  many  years  in  India  to  his  credit.  I 
liked  his  face  and  the  way  he  stood  up  to  my  questions.  I 
offered  him  a  job,  and  now  I  don't  think  he  could  be  driven 
away.  My  father  pays  him,  but  when  I  am  home,  he  re- 
gards himself  as  my  exclusive  property." 

"We'll  take  him  to  the  cottage  with  us,  Ted.  I  won't  have 
you  without  Chitty." 

"I'd  put  on  a  dinner  gown,  Helen,"  I  said,  as  I  saw 
her  getting  out  one  of  her  afternoon  dresses  from  a  trunk. 

"Just  to  dine  at  home  with  the  family,  Ted?" 

"My  mother  is  rather  fussy  about  dinner.  It  is  the  one 
ceremony  she  believes  in.  And  besides,  I  want  Helen  to 
look  her  beautifullest  tonight." 

I  helped  her  unpack  a  bit,  for  she  began  to  exclaim  over 
the  condition  of  her  dresses  as  she  took  them  out. 

"You  might  as  well  leave  them,"  I  objected.  "Sims  will 
see  to  them." 

I  made  her  put  on  all  her  finery,  including  the  few  pieces 
of  simple  jewelry  that  had  been  among  her  wedding  presents. 
The  total  effect  was  most  satisfactory  to  my  eyes.  Slie 
seemed  more  beautiful  every  time  I  looked  at  her. 

The  dinner  gong  had  gone  about  five  minutes  before  we 
were  ready  to  come  down.  I  had  clumsily  mussed  Helen's 
hair  at  the  last  moment,  and  there  had  been  a  pause  to  re- 
pair the  damage. 

"I  wish,  Ted,  you  would  try,  while  you  are  in  my  house, 
to  be  on  time  to  dinner,"  my  mother  said  as  we  sat  down. 

The  dinner  began  under  an  air  of  constraint,  for  it  was 
always  difficult  for  me  to  conceal  my  irritation  when  my 
mother  rebuked  me.  My  sister  smiled  sympathy  and  re- 
assurance across  the  table  at  me,  and  Chitty  hovered  about 
me  with  the  hock.  Helen  felt  that  I  had  been  put  off  and 
kept  her  eyes  on  her  plate.  Right  after  the  soup,  Leonidas 
was   ordered   out   of  the  room.     I   was   on  the  verge  of   a 


WE   ARRIVE   AND   LOOK   FORWARD     219 

protest  when  I  felt  Helen's  hand  on.  my  arm.  Instead,  there 
was  another  silence. 

"Helen,  where  did  you  and  Ted  get  that  extraordinary  dog?" 
my  sister  asked,  meaning  well. 

"Let  us  talk  about  something  pleasant,  if  we  can,"  my 
mother  cut  in.  Revolt  came  near  to  breaking  forth.  My 
father  saved  the  situation  this  time  by  telling  me  rapidly  some 
story  of  an  occurrence  during  my.  absence. 

The  table  was  cleared  at  last,  and  I  was  left  with  my  father 
and  our  glasses  of  port.  I  could  hear  my  mother  playing 
a  Beethoven  sonata,  which  I  knew  for  an  ominous  sign.  The 
piano  was  her  refuge  in  times  of  stress.  When  things  were 
very  bad,  she  played  Bach.  My  father  and  I  looked  at  each 
other,  each  waiting  for  the  other  to  begin.  I  was  damned 
if  I  would,  for  I  felt  most  emphatically  that  Helen  required 
no  explanation.  Any  one  who  could  not  see  by  looking  once 
at  her  that  she  was  the  most  adorable  girl  in  the  world — 
words  failed  even  my  thoughts. 

"It  isn't  Helen — it's  you,"  my  father  said,  studying  his 
cigar. 

"I  don't  see — "  I  began. 

"Steady,  Ted.  Listen  to  me.  There  are  a  good  many 
factors  in  the  problem.     Your  mother  idolizes  you — " 

"It  has  been  fairly  well  dissembled  tonight — " 

"Be  quiet,  Ted!  I  won't  have  you  speak  in  that  way.  If 
you  knew  more  about  the  world — or  about  women — you  would 
know  that  it  is  very  hard  for  your  mother  to  forgive  the 
woman  who  marries  you — you  are  an  only  son — Ted,  you 
must  not  explode  until  I  have  finished.  Last  of  all,  she 
can't  quite  forgive  you  for  getting  married  when  she  was  not 
there.  Nothing  has  ever  hurt  her  so  much  as  not  being 
at  your  wedding.     Can't  you  understand?" 

"Well,  what  am  I  to  do?  Sit  quiet  while  she  insults 
Helen?" 

"You  are  riding  for  trouble,  Ted,  if  you  go  at  it  like 
that.     Helen  will  bring  her  around  in  no  time,  provided  you 


220  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

behave  yourself.  I  think  your  wife  has  commonsense — sh« 
has  a  levelheaded  look  in  her  face — " 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  I  sneered. 

"She's  good  old  American  stock  like  the  rest  of  us,  Ted, 
and  I'll  back  her  to  win.  I  haven't  been  home  much,  Ted, 
for  a  good  many  years,  but  I  recognized  her  type  the  instant 
I  saw  her  at  Euston.  Now  the  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to 
go  out  of  your  way  to  be  nice  to  your  mother — and  leave 
the  rest  to  Helen." 

"Considering  everything,"  I  replied,  "I  think  my  mother 
might  meet  me  at  least  half  way.  I've  been  out  in  America  for 
over  a  year,  working  ten  hours  a  day  in  a  bloody  factory., 
and  when  I  come  home  with  the  best  wife  in  the  world,  I 
am  regarded  as  having  done  something  criminal." 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Ted — or  try  to  make  yourself  sorry  for 
yourself.  You  had  a  damned  good  time  with  your  ten  hours 
a  day,  as  you  call  it,  and  you  got  a  jolly  sight  better  reward 
for  it  than  you  deserve.  In  my  humble  opinion,  Helen  is 
too  good  for  you." 

"We  agree  on  one  thing — that's  a  blessing,"  I  answered, 
feeling  that  I  was  losing  when  I  really  had  a  good  case.  "I'll 
do  what  I  can,  but  I  won't  sit  by  and  see  Helen — " 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Ted!  To  use  plain  American,  you  make 
me  tired.  Go  into  the  drawing  room  and  be  nice  to  your 
mother.  Tell  her  what  you  have  been  doing.  She'll  like  to 
hear  about  the  ten  hours  a  day.     You  can  pitch  it  strong." 

I  looked  up  and  saw  Helen  standing  at  the  door.  "Won't 
you  come  into  the  drawing  room,  Ted?  I  think  your  mother 
expects  you." 

"Come  here,  little  girl,"  my  father  said  to  Helen.  She 
went  and  sat  on  his  lap.     "Can  you  manage  that  boy?" 

Helen  smiled  at  me  and  kissed  her  father-in-law  by  way 
of  answer. 

"You  speak  American,  don't  you?" 

Helen  nodded  her  head  vigorously. 

"Well,  will  you  please  tell  him  to  keep  his  hair  on?" 


WE   ARRIVE   AND   LOOK   FORWARD      221 

Helen  came  to  me  with  a  laugh  and  caught  me  by  the  arm. 

"Come,  Ted." 

I  followed  her  meekly. 

When  we  reached  the  drawing  room,  my  sister  said: 
"Mother  has  gone  up  to  bed." 

We  kissed  Frances  good  night  and  climbed  to  our  own 
quarters.  I  went  into  my  study  to  look  out  some  of  my  old 
books.  Upon  my  return  I  found  Helen  lying  on  her  bed, 
sobbing. 

"What  is  it,  my  love?" — I  flew  to  her  and  whispered  in 
her  ear. 

"Ted,  darling — will  you  ever  forgive  me?     I'm  homesick." 

She  sobbed  herself  asleep  in  my  arms  that  night.  I  lay 
awake,  thinking  of  many  things. 

A  week  later  the  deadlock  between  my  mother  and  me  was 
still  unbroken.  Helen,  however,  was  rapidly  finding  her 
feet  in  the  joy  of  exploring  London.  We  went  the  second 
evening  of  our  homecoming  to  the  Lyceum  to  see  Henry 
Irving  in  The  Bells  and  the  next  night  to  his  Charles  I. 
We  lunched  out,  sometimes  at  Kettner's  in  Greek  Street,  Soho, 
or  down  in  the  City  at  Crosby  Hall  or  at  The  Ship  and 
Turtle.  Helen  could  not  get  enough  of  riding  on  the  tops 
of  the  busses.  We  used  no  other  conveyance  except  for 
going  to  the  theatres.  We  did  a  certain  standard  thing  each 
morning,  such  as  going  to  the  Abbey,  St.  Paul's,  or  The  Tower, 
and  the  rest  of  the  time  we  rode  or  walked  about  without 
plan  or  purpose.  It  was  enough  to  be  in  London — it  mattered 
little  where  one  went  or  why,  there  were  marvels  to  be 
seen  in  any  direction.  We  sat  a  lot  in  quiet  old  City  churches, 
particularly  in  St.  Bartholomew's  in  Smithfield.  The  restora- 
tion had  not  quite  done  for  the  simple  majesty  of  its  Norman 
pillars.  I  could  see  London  literally  soaking  into  Helen's 
blood.  And  she  greeted  the  bookshops  on  Charing  Cross 
Road  like  a  discovery  of  old  friends.  We  bought  all  the 
plays  we  could  find  in  the  sixpenny  boxes. 


222  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

We  went  out  each  day  early  in  the  morning  and  returned 
only  in  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  The  family  were  quiescent; 
no  comment  was  made  on  our  comings  and  goings,  except 
the  daily  question  whether  we  were  to  be  expected  at  luncheon. 
My  mother  never  said  an  unkind  word  to  Helen,  but  she 
treated  her  with  a  stiff,  formal  politeness  that  resisted  all  ad- 
vances. Frances,  my  sister,  was  in  despair,  not  knowing  with 
whom  to  side.  She  adored  her  mother  and  at  the  same  time 
had  always  been  a  good  pal  of  mine — as  much  of  one,  in 
fact,  as  the  discrepancy  in  our  ages  had  permitted.  Once  or 
twice  she  went  out  for  the  day  with  us,  but  our  energetic 
sightseeing  tired  her  out.  She  had  been  born  in  London 
and  had  never  lived  anywhere  else,  and  its  lions  did  not  appeal 
to  her  as  they  did  to  Helen.  Helen  and  Frances  were  already 
fast  friends,  wandering  about  the  house  in  the  mornings  with 
their  arms  about  each  other  or  exchanging  mysterious 
whispered  conferences  and  giggles  in  their  dressing  gowns. 
They  had  reached  at  a  bound  the  intimacy  which  involved 
borrowing  each  other's  stockings,  garters,  and  gloves.  If 
Helen  had  felt  homesick  again,  she  said  nothing  about  it. 

Then  at  the  end  of  the  week  my  father  requested  me  to 
see  him  in  the  library.  I  could  tell  from  the  way  he  was 
examining  a  pile  of  papers  that  he  had  something  to  say 
to  me  that  he  found  difficult  to  express.  He  never  smoked 
in  the  morning — a  habit  which  was  in  itself  a  handicap. 

"Ted,"  he  said  at  the  conclusion  of  a  few  commonplaces, 
"I  am  sending  you  to  Berlin  tomorrow  for  a  month." 

"What  fun  that  will  be  for  Helen,"  I  exclaimed,  springing 
to  my  feet. 

"Sit  down — I  haven't  finished."  I  resumed  my  chair  with 
an  unpleasant  foreboding.  "I  can't  afford  to  send  Helen 
with  you — you  are  going  alone." 

"Hell!"  I  ejaculated  impolitely.  "You  might  have  told 
me  a  few  days  ago." 

"I  didn't  want  to  interfere  with  your  first  week." 

"What  am  I  to  do  in  Berlin?" 


WE  ARRIVE   AND   LOOK   FORWARD       223 

"I  want  you  to  learn  a  new  chemical  process  we  are  going 
to  handle.  The  money  from  the  sale  of  the  Deep  Harbor 
factory  has  been  entirely  used  to  found  a  new  company  here. 
Until  we  get  that  on  its  feet  we  shall  be  rather  hard-up. 
But  we  are  playing  for  big  stakes  now,  Ted.  If  this  goes, 
you  will  be  free  to  do  as  you  please." 

"I  suppose  I  receive  a  salary." 

"Not  enough  for  you  and  Helen  to  live  on — that's  why 
you  must  live  with  us  for  the  present.  But  I'll  give  you  a  ten 
per  cent,  interest  in  the  new  company,  and  it  will  be  up  to 
you  to  make  it  good.  Meanwhile  your  salary  is  the  nominal 
one  of  two  pounds  a  week." 

"But  we  can't  go  to  the  theatre  on  that,"  I  exclaimed.  It 
was  rather  a  shock,  for  in  Deep  Harbor  I  had  been  well 
paid.     "I  can  get  a  better  job  on  my  own." 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  replied  my  father.  "Your  chemical 
work  is  reported  as  expert.  If  you  want  to  back  out  now 
and  leave  me  in  the  lurch,  go  ahead." 

I  opened  my  mouth  to  speak — and  paused.  A  recollection 
of  my  interview  with  Knowlton  on  this  very  subject  crossed 
my  mind.  I  heard  him  say — "play  the  skunk  and  leave  you 
flat,  Ted,"     On  the  other  hand,  what  was  my  duty  to  Helen? 

"We'll  be  paying  dividends  after  the  first  twelve  months, 
Ted.  Then  you'll  be  all  right.  Your  interest  in  the  company 
will  be  worth  a  lot  of  money." 

"It's  more  or  less  of  a  gamble,  I  suppose?" 

"All  business  is,"  said  my  father.  "But  I  was  flattering 
myself  I  had  a  son  who  had  the  grit  to  gamble  for  big 
stakes,  and  the  brains  to  play  the  game." 

"Damn,"  I  said,  getting  up  and  walking  about  the  room. 
My  father  began  writing  with  an  abominably  scratchy  nib. 

"I  ought  to  consult  Helen,"  I  turned  and  shot  at  him.  He 
looked  up  from  his  letter  and  shrugged.  The  nib  scratched  on. 
"I  told  her  I  had  excellent  prospects  when  I  married  her — 
that  Knowlton  and  I  had  made  good  with  the  Deep  Harbor 
Manufacturing  Company — "     I  paused  in  my  argument,  for 


224  I   WALKED    IN  ARDEN 

my  father  appeared  to  be  ignoring  my  remarks.  He  began 
another  letter. 

"Take  it  or  leave  it,  Ted,"  he  said  after  another  silence. 
"All  I  ask  is  that  you  let  me  know  definitely  by  lunch  time. 
If  you  don't  go,  I  must  send  another  chemist  to  Berlin.  I've 
made  you  the  best  offer  in  my  power.  A  father  can't  do 
more  than  that." 

"I  wish  you  could  see  my  point  of  view." 

"I  see  it  perfectly.  Facts,  however,  overrule  a  point  of 
view.  If  I  had  the  means,  I'd  set  you  free  this  minute.  As 
I  haven't,  there  is  nothing  to  argue  about." 

"Facts  are  damned  unfair." 

"They  are,"  agreed  my  father. 

"If  I  put  it  up  to  Helen,  she'll  tell  me,  of  course,  to  stick 
by  you,  no  matter  what  the  sacrifice." 

"In  that  case  I  should  decide  for  myself,  if  I  were  you. 
It's  a  poor  plan  to  try  to  shift  your  responsibilities  on  to 
some  other  person." 

I  had  a  suspicion  my  father  was  secretly  laughing  at  me. 
I  had  a  knack  of  making  the  worst  possible  showing  in  a  crisis. 

"I  want  to  be  fair  to  you  and  to  Helen,"  I  exclaimed. 

"I'm  not  impressed  by  heroics,"  my  father  answered  coldly. 
"I  don't  think  either  of  you  is  being  very  hardly  used — you 
have  a  comfortable  home  offered  you  and  a  good  opportunity 
to  work  for.     I  am  not  asking  favours — I'm  giving  them." 

In  one  sense  this  was,  of  course,  strictly  true;  yet  there 
was  something  to  be  said  on  my  side.  Nothing  was  to  be 
gamed  by  stating  it;  I  therefore  kept  silent.  Ten  minutes 
more  must  have  passed  while  I  turned  the  problem  over. 
My  father  imperturbably  continued  to  write,  address,  and 
seal  letters. 

"Do  you  know  which  way  I  am  going  to  decide?"  I  asked, 
curiosity  getting  the  better  of  me. 

"Frankly,"  my  father  replied,  "I  don't.  I'm  not  bluffing, 
Ted.  I  have  never  understood  you  very  well.  We've  always 
been  good  chums;  still,  I  have  known  that  inwardly  you  go 
your  own  gait." 


WE  ARRIVE   AND   LOOK   FORWARD       225 

"I  don't  think  I  have  ever  disobeyed  an  important 
command." 

"No,  I  don't  believe  you  have — perhaps  I  have  never 
asked  you  to  do  anything  I  didn't  think  was  for  the  best.  You 
didn't  like  being  sent  to  Deep  Harbor.  Are  you  sorry  now 
you  went?" 

"You  can't  take  the  credit  to  yourself  for  Helen  and  make 
that  into  an  argument,"  I  said.     "Logic  has  its  limits." 

"I  never  went  to  college,  so  logic  doesn't  bother  me,"  my 
father  smiled.  It  was  the  first  time  his  face  had  relaxed 
since  I  came  in. 

"I'll  go,"  I  announced.  My  father  opened  a  desk  drawer 
and  took  out  a  bundle  of  papers. 

"Here's  your  railway  ticket — Harwich — Hook  of  Holrand. 
You  leave  from  Victoria.  And  here's  your  instructions  and 
a  letter  of  introduction  to  the  Treptow  Chemische  Gesell- 
schaft.  When  you  know  how  to  use  the  process  you  will 
be  taught,  come  home.  The  quicker  you  learn,  the  quicker 
you  get  back.     But  you  must  know  it  thoroughly." 

"Then  you  did  think  I'd  accept,"  I  remarked,  rather  in- 
dignant again. 

"My  dear  boy,  it  never  crossed  my  mind  you  would  make  a 
fuss.     You  took  me  entirely  by  surprise." 

"I  always  seem  to  be  wrong,"  I  growled. 

"But  fortunately  you  often  end  up  by  doing  right,"  my 
father  smiled. 

Helen  was  a  brick.  We  talked  the  whole  thing  over,  and 
she  scolded  me  for  having  hesitated.  Helen's  scoldings  were 
very  affectionate  affairs.  She  smiled  and  assured  me  she 
would  be  all  right.  It  might  be  the  best  way  to  win  my 
mother  over,  and  so  on.  Besides  she  would  do  a  thousand 
things  with  Frances  and  would  write  me  every  day.  At  the 
end  I  rang  for  Chitty  and  told  him  to  pack  enough  things 
for  a  month's  journey. 

"Will  you  be  playing  golf,  sir?"  he  asked.  Helen  squealed 
with  delight  from  the  bed,  where  she  was  sitting  with  her 
feet  tucked  under  her. 


226  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"No — business,  Chitty.     No  riding  clothes." 

"Very  good,  sir.     Thank  you." 

Helen  saw  me  off  the  next  evening,  accompanied  by  the 
family.  Her  eyes  were  swimming,  but  she  didn't  let  go.  She 
was  the  last  to  kiss  me,  after  a  formal  kiss  from  my  mother 
and  a  huge  puppy  embrace  from  Frances. 

"Don't  worry,  Ted  darling.  I  promise  not  to  be  homesick. 
I  love  you." 

A  guard  most  unceremoniously  slammed  the  door  between 
us.  The  train  pulled  out.  I  sat  and  swore  nearly  all  the  way 
to  Harwich. 

The  month  did  not  pass  quickly,  although  I  worked  hard, 
for  long  hours.  The  process  was  intricate  and  complicated, 
quite  beyond  the  range  of  anything  I  had  done  before.  The 
German  chemists  did  their  best  to  help  me,  and  at  the  same 
time  made  no  secret  of  their  contempt  for  my  training. 

Helen  wrote  amusing  and  cheerful  letters,  in  which  Leoni- 
das  and  Frances  chiefly  figured.  She  spoke  little  of  my 
mother,  and  only  to  reassure  me  that  "everything  was  all 
right."  I  knew,  therefore,  that  no  progress  had  been  made 
there.  One  piece  of  news,  which  I  thought  might  possibly 
come,  did  not.  That  had  been  one  of  my  chief  anxieties 
over  leaving  Helen. 

I  saw  a  lot  of  Berlin  and  went  nightly  to  cheap  seats  at 
the  theatre.  My  experiences  of  this  city  are  not,  however, 
germane  to  this  narrative.  It  was  not  until  the  middle  of  the 
fifth  week  of  my  stay  that  the  Treptow  Chemische  Gesellschaft 
notified  me  that  I  had  now  performed  the  process  successfully 
several  times  and  was  in  a  position  to  return  to  instruct  others. 
I  made  one  of  the  quickest  trips  to  a  telegraph  office  known  to 
German  history.  From  there  to  my  hotel  and  on  to  the 
Bahnhof  I  at  least  equalled  any  existing  record.  Twenty- 
four  hours  later  Helen  was  in  my  arms  on  the  platform  of 
Victoria  Station. 

The  family  were  at  dinner  when  we  reached  Kensington. 


WE   ARRIVE   AND   LOOK   FORWARD       227 

I  hope  Gabriel's  trumpet  is  not  timed  for  the  dinner  hour, 
for  it  is  quite  certain  my  mother  will  not  allow  even  that  to 
postpone  her  sitting  down. 

"Have  you  got  it,  Ted?"  my  father  asked. 

"What  isn't  in  my  head  is  in  the  bag  upstairs,"  I  replied. 

Right  after  dinner  Helen  and  I  fled  to  our  retreat,  brutally 
closing  the  door  in  Frances's  face.  We  sat  on  the  floor  before 
a  fire  and  talked.  Berlin  and  London — we  compared  notes 
until  after  midnight.  As  we  were  about  to  go  to  bed,  Helen 
whispered : 

"There's  one  thing  more,  Ted,   I  haven't  told  you." 

And  then  came  the  big  news  I  had  been  expecting  while 
away. 

"I  just  had  to  tell  you  yourself,  darling.  I  didn't  want 
to  write  it." 

God!  If  anything  should  happen  to  my  Jjeloved!  and  I 
went  sick  and  cold  at  the  thought.  But  she  did  not  know  this 
fear,  for  I  held  her  tight,  kissing  her  eyes.  We  sat  on  before 
the  fire,  far  into  the  night,  talking  of  the  new  future  this 
revealed,  of  the  new  wonder  that  had  come  into  our  lives. 

"Edward  Jevons,  Junior,"  Helen  murmured  as  she  fell 
asleep  on  my  shoulder. 


Chapter    Fourteen 
we    find    new    life    and    new    love 

THE  new  factory  was  at  Willesden  Junction,  which  I, 
reached  regularly  every  morning  by  the  8.10  from 
Earl's  Court  Road,  returning  home  to  the  little  house 
in  Kensington  about  seven.  It  was  a  long  day,  made  longer 
by  the  railway  journey  at  each  end.  The  present  equipment 
was  on  a  comparatively  small  scale,  future  expansion  de- 
pending largely  on  what  it  was  to  be  hoped  our  laboratory 
could  accomplish.  Two  young  English  chemists,  graduates  of 
a  technical  school,  were  assigned  to  work  with  me.  The  rest 
of  the  research  staff  included  a  machinist  and  pipe  fitter,  a 
general  utility  girl,  a  glass  blower  to  make  special  apparatus, 
and  Chitty. 

The  latter  I  ruthlessly  took  from  his  duties  as  general 
house  man  to  do  odd  jobs  for  me.  He  gloried  in  his  new 
work,  for  he  had  a  positive  awe  of  chemistry.  To  him  it 
was  the  last  word  in  the  mysterious  achievements  of  the  edu- 
cated human  intellect.  With  his  awe  was  a  wholesome  fear 
of  possible  eventualities.  There  was  not  a  day  that  it  wasn't 
his  secret  belief  that  we  should  all  be  blown  to  atoms. 
Nevertheless,  on  the  rare  occasions  when  minor  accidents  did 
occur,  he  was  the  first  person  I  found  standing  at  my  elbow. 
I  sometimes  amused  myself  by  devising  harmless  bangs  or 
unexpected  puffs  of  smoke,  to  see  Chitty  come  on  the  run 
to  my  side.  The  day  I  really  spilt  some  acid  on  myself, 
I  thought  the  man  would  get  his  hands  badly  burned  before 
I  could  stop  him  from  tearing  my  clothes  off.  He  was, 
however,  like  a  perfectly  trained  dog.  A  sharp  word  of 
command  brought  him  up  all  standing.     I  saved  his  hands 

228 


NEW  LIFE  AND   NEW  LOVE  229 

from  serious  burns  and  got  out  of  my  clothes  without  damage 
to  myself. 

"Chitty,"  I  said  another  time,  "if  this  place  ever  gets  on 
fire  you  are  to  get  out  the  first  window  without  delay." 

"Not  until  I  see  you  going,  sir,  thank  you,"  he  replied. 
And  he  meant  it. 

On  pleasant  Saturday  afternoons,  during  the  early  autumn, 
Helen  came  out  to  meet  me.  Chitty  used  to  prepare  my 
luncheons  for  me  every  day;  on  Saturdays  he  catered  for 
two.  His  army  training  taught  him  to  use  any  utensils  handy, 
and  Helen  laughed  until  the  tears  came  at  finding  his  kitchen 
a  series  of  Bunsen  burners,  his  crockery  mainly  Meissen  ware 
and  Bohemian  glass  beakers.  He  could  cook  sausages  and 
grill  tomatoes  fit  for  an  epicure.  It  was  true  his  range 
was  strictly  limited,  being  restricted  to  what  might  be  put  in 
a  frying  pan  or  plain  boiled,  but  within  its  limits  it  was  un- 
excelled. 

Luncheon  over,  we  would  take  the  train  back  and  prowl 
about  for  an  hour  or  two  before  tea  or  see  a  matinee  from  the 
pit.  Our  finances  made  it  necessary  for  us  to  keep  to  simple 
pleasures.  Still,  by  saving  all  our  pennies  for  Saturdays  and 
Sundays  we  did  ourselves  surprisingly  well.  During  the 
week  the  company  paid  for  my  railway  ticket  and  luncheons. 
Thus  the  weekend  found  us  with  thirty  or  a  few  more 
shillings  to  spend.  In  those  pre-war  days  two  could  do  a 
lot  in  London  on  thirty  shillings.  For  example,  if  we  wished 
to  be  really  extravagant  and  "go  a  bust"  we  lunched  at 
Kettner's  for  3/6  each,  table  d'hote,  total  7  shillings — a  shil- 
ling for  the  waiter — eight;  a  bottle  of  table  chianti,  3  bob;  or 
eleven  in  all,  leaving  nineteen  shillings  over.  Setting  aside 
a  half  crown  for  tea,  we  still  had  16/6.  Suppose  we  went 
to  a  pit — half  a  crown  apiece;  total,  5  shillings — we  yet  were 
rich  with  eleven  and  six  remaining.  Plenty  over  for  Sunday, 
especially  if  we  took  luncheon  with  us  from  home.  We  did 
not  lack  for  clothes;  Helen's  trousseau  would  last  a  long  time 
— and  the  next  year  the  company  was  going  to  pay  dividends. 


230  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

Meanwhile  there  was  one  deep  disappointment  mixed  with 
our  improvident  happiness.  I  had  no  time  for  writing  or 
even  for  keeping  in  touch  with  my  theatrical  and  literary- 
friends.  They  had  begun  by  dropping  in  at  the  house,  never 
to  find  me  at  home,  and  in  a  few  months  a  caller  for  us  was 
rare.  My  absence  in  America  had  broken  a  good  many 
threads,  and  there  was  no  opportunity  to  spin  new  ones.  The 
work  and  friendships  we  had  planned  to  do  and  form  together 
while  riding  over  the  hills  of  Deep  Harbor  could  not  be 
done  and  formed.  I  had  to  live  and  think  chemistry.  The 
evenings  were  rarely  free,  for  laboratory  reports  of  the  day's 
work  had  to  be  prepared  then.  The  week-ends  were  so 
precious  that  Helen  and  I  could  not  spare  them  for  anything 
but  our  own  companionship. 

Along  with  the  first  fogs,  in  November,  I  realized  that  the 
work  at  the  laboratory  was  getting  on  slowly.  I  had  not  yet 
been  able  to  begin  quantity  production.  My  father  called 
one  day  to  ask  me  to  look  over  the  special  expenditures  oil 
behalf  of  research.  He  wanted  to  know  if  economies  were  not 
possible,  and  where  I  thought  we  were  going.  For  many  hours 
I  reviewed  the  accounts  and  the  results  to  date,  as  set  down 
in  the  laboratory  diary  and  reports.  There  was  nothing  to 
show  on  the  side  of  practical  accomplishments.  The  ex- 
periments gave  evidence  we  were  on  the  right  track;  it  was 
equally  clear  we  had  not  arrived.  The  German  process  worked 
well  on  a  small  scale  with  carefully  selected  chemicals;  it 
did  not  work  at  all  on  a  commercial  scale. 

"Well,  Ted,  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it?"  my  father 
inquired  at  the  end  of  my  survey.  "My  associates  are  getting 
restless;  we  have  spent  a  great  deal  of  money.  What  have 
we  to  show  for  it?" 

I  turned  over  my  notes  again,  as  one  does  in  such  cases, 
hoping  some  overlooked  solution  will  leap  from  the  pages. 

"I  am  certain  I  can  do  it,"  I  said. 

"When?     And  how  much  will  it  cost?" 

"That  I  can't  say.     It  may  be  tomorrow — it  may  be  next 


NEW   LIFE   AND   NEW   LOVE  231 

month.  The  answer  perhaps  is  filtering  now  in  the  next 
room,  or  it  may  be  a  question  of  several  weeks'  experiment." 

"Not  good  enough,  Ted." 

"You  told  me  it  would  be  a  year  before  you  expected 
results." 

"A  year  before  we  paid  dividends.  If  you  can't  begin 
manufacture,  how  can  you  expect  to  make  a  profit?  Your 
experiments  have  eaten  a  deep  hole  in  our  resources,  and  we 
are  where  we  were  at  the  beginning.  In  short,  Ted,  if  you 
don't  tell  me  you  are  ready  to  manufacture  before  the  next 
three  months  are  up,  we'll  have  to  close  down." 

"We  might  get  one  of  the  Germans  over  and  let  him 
have  a  look  at  what  I'm  doing."  I  went  into  the  next  room 
and  came  back  with  a  sample.  "Here  is  the  stuff — I  make  it 
every  day  in  there.  But  when  it  goes  through  in  quantity 
downstairs,  I  can't  get  it." 

"What  are  you  doing  about  it?" 

"Analyzing  all  our  raw  materials  to  see  if  I  can  trace  the 
probable  impurity  that  is  blocking  us.  The  apparatus  down- 
stairs has  been  tested  and  examined  a  dozen  times.  I  can  find 
nothing  the  matter  there.  I  thought,  at  first,  lubricating  oil 
might  be  leaking  into  the  mixers." 

"Suppose  you  can't  find  the  cause?" 

I  shrugged.  "If  the  world  comes  to  an  end,  there's  not 
much  good  planning  what  you  will  do.  There  is  a  cause, 
and  I've  got  to  find  it.  There's  nothing  mysterious  about  it. 
Such  matters  are  a  problem  of  elimination.  You  must  be 
careful  not  to  overlook  any  possibility.  In  the  end  you  run  it 
down — corner  it.     But  it  may  take  time." 

"Is  there  any  possibility  our  German  friends  have  done  us?" 

"I've  thought  of  that.  Yet  if  that  is  the  case,  why  the 
devil  does  the  stuff  come  out  all  right  on  a  small  scale? 
Here  it  is  in  my  hand.  There  is  such  a  thing.  They  haven't 
faked  it — there  it  is." 

"Will  you  write  a  special  report  tonight  for  me  to  show 
the  board  of  directors  tomorrow?" 


232  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"Yes.     You  still  own  the  controlling  interest,  don't  you?" 

"Up  till  now  I  do,"  my  father  replied.  "I  may  have  to  let 
that  go,  Ted,  if  you  don't  find  the  answer  soon." 

I  gave  up  my  Saturday  afternoons  and  often  my  Sundays. 
The  answer  did  not  appear.  All  this  was  hard  on  Helen.  The 
family  tension  did  not  tend  to  relax  in  the  face  of  our  dif- 
ficulties at  the  factory.  My  own  nerves  were  being  stretched 
taut,  and  I  had  to  fight  to  keep  Helen  from  noticing  too  much 
the  strain  I  was  under.  I  laid  off  my  two  assistant  chemists, 
to  reduce  expenses.  Their  help  had  never  been  valuable  ex- 
cept for  doing  routine  things.  Occasionally,  when  there  was 
an  experiment  on  that  couldn't  be  left  unfinished,  I  worked  at 
Willesden  until  late  at  night.  It  was  Helen's  calm  faith  in 
me  that  kept  me  at  it  and  gave  me  self-control.  I  talked 
little  with  her — or  with  any  one — about  this  damned  problem, 
preferring,  with  her,  to  read  and  dream  as  we  had  always  done; 
and  I  kept  my  mouth  shut  as  far  as  possible  before  my  father, 
to  prevent  his  noting  that  I  was  badly  frightened.  Chitty 
realized  that  I  had  a  facer.  His  anxiety  was  pathetic ;  I  would 
look  up  from  an  experiment  and  find  him  watching  my  face 
eagerly,  to  see  if  now  I  had  a  ray  of  hope.  Of  course,  Helen 
knew  why  I  did  not  come  home  on  Saturday  afternoons,  but 
her  confidence  kept  her  so  optimistic  she  scarcely  worried  at 
all.  I  cursed  German  chemistry  from  A  to  Z  before  Chitty; 
elsewhere  I  was  grimly  silent  on  the  subject. 

My  mother  in  no  wise  changed  her  attitude;  Helen  was 
treated  with  the  formality  of  a  guest,  and  I  should  have 
worried  more  than  I  did  about  this  if  I  had  not  discovered 
by  accident  that  she  was  closeted  with  Sims  a  great  part  of 
each  day  in  her  own  room  making  baby  clothes.  Poor  mother, 
how  happy  she  could  have  made  Helen  by  letting  her  know 
this!  But  she  didn't.  Helen  sat  all  day  working  in  her 
room  on  little  things,  and  my  mother  in  hers,  and  neither 
woman  spoke  to  the  other  of  what  she  was  doing.  "While 
I'm  seeking  answers  to  chemical  riddles,  I  wish  some  one 
would  explain  to  me  the  riddle  of  human  nature,"  I  thought 


NEW  LIFE  AND   NEW  LOVE  233 

to  myself.  One  night  I  decided  to  act  on  this  idea  and  seek 
the  latter  answer  for  myself.     I  went  to  my  mother's  room. 

"What  do  you  wish,  Ted?"  she  asked  as  I  sat  down.  It 
had  been  a  great  many  years  since  we  had  exchanged  any 
confidences  face  to  face.  Her  devotion  to  me  had  always 
alarmed  me — it  put  me  off  when  I  came  near  her.  I  knew  I 
didn't  think  as  she  thought,  and  I  was  afraid  a  misunder- 
standing hopeless  to  reconcile  would  come.  It  sounds  para- 
doxical, I  know — that  I  should  fear  her  love  to  the  point 
that  I  believed  it  dangerous — but  so  it  was.  "If  we  ever  really 
quarrel,"  I  had  said  to  myself,  "nothing  on  earth  will  patch 
it  up."  So  it  came  about  that  for  years  I  had  avoided  in- 
timacy with  her,  preferring  a  queer  aloofness  to  any  at- 
tempt at  understanding,  since  by  nature  we  were  such  op- 
posites. 

"I  shan't  pretend,  mother.  It's  about  Helen,"  I  said  in 
answer  to  her  question. 

"What  about  Helen?"  my  mother  replied  coldly. 

I  wondered  what  to  say.  She  sat  there  looking  at  me 
calmly,  but  there  was  a  hardness  in  her  expression  which  in- 
dicated that  all  defences  were  fully  manned.  "I'll  make  a 
mess  of  it — get  the  worst  of  it,  I  know,  and  go  out  of  here 
thoroughly  in  the  wrong,"  I  said  to  myself.  "But,  damn  it 
all,  I  ought  to  be  able  to  think  of  the  right  thing." 

"You  wished  to  speak  to  me  about  Helen?" 

"Helen  likes  you,"  I  blurted  out,  at  the  same  time  realizing 
I  had  made  the  worst  of  all  possible  starts. 

"She  has  only  to  tell  me  this  herself."  My  mother's  voice 
was  level. 

"Would  it  do  any  good?"  I  blundered  on. 

"I  am  sure  I  have  not  the  least  idea  what  you  mean,  Ted. 
I  think  it  would  be  much  better  if  you  went  up  to  your 
own  room." 

I  began  to  be  desperate.  There  ought  to  be  some  facial 
flag  of  truce,  indicating  unconditional  surrender,  that  one 
could  wave  with  a  look.     At  that  moment  I  would  have  given 


234  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

anything,  except  Helen's  love,  to  have  ray  mother  relent.  In- 
stead, she  picked  up  a  book  and  made  an  elaborate  show  of 
reading.  I  meditated  flying  into  a  childish  rage,  thus  forcing 
the  issue,  but  I  was  so  truly  hurt  and  angry  I  didn't  dare.  I 
knew  I  should  probably  say  something  I  should  afterwards 
regret.     I  got  upon  my  feet. 

"I  am  sorry  you  do  not  approve  of  my  marriage,  mother" — 
adding  mistake  number  three  to  the  two  I  was  certain  I  had 
made. 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  approve  or  disapprove  of  your  marriage, 
Edward.     I  was  not  consulted.     It  is  no  affair  of  mine." 

"Of  course,  you  don't  mean  it,"  I  said.  "That  remark  is 
silly  enough  to  have  been  made  by  me."  I  was  quite  ap- 
palled at  my  boldness,  but  anger  was  fast  mastering  me. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  have  any  further  discussion  with  you  on 
this  subject,  either  now  or  in  the  future.  Whatever  else  you 
learned  in  Deep  Harbor,  it  wasn't  manners." 

"Rot!"  I  exclaimed.  She  lifted  her  eyebrows  and  turned 
a  page.  I  stood  a  second  irresolute.  "I  mean  I  didn't  in- 
tend to  be  rude — you  know  what  I  mean — only  you  won't 
admit  it." 

"I  don't  expect  an  apology.     Good  night,  Edward." 

"Now  you've  done  it,  you  blithering  idiot,"  I  said  as  I 
clumped  upstairs  to  Helen.  "I  knew  I'd  end  in  the  wrong." 
Helen  gently  told  me,  at  the  conclusion  of  my  story,  words 
to  the  same  effect. 

"Am  I  a  blithering  idiot,  Helen  dear?" 

"No,  sweetheart,  you  are  just  a  boy,"  was  Helen's  exit  line 
for  this  episode. 

Our  second  Christmas  together  was  drawing  near,  and  it 
promised  to  be  far  different  from  the  one  we  had  looked 
forward  to  the  year  before.  The  factory  problem  was  still 
unsolved;  the  building  which  my  father  had  anticipated  would 
be  humming  with  prosperous  activity  stood  silent.     Only  in 


NEW   LIFE   AND   NEW   LOVE  235 

the  laboratory  upstairs  was  there  any  work  being  done,  labour 
which  still  seemed  but  a  beating  of  the  air.  I  had  called  in 
more  than  one  consulting  chemist;  they  merely  suggested  that 
I  do  the  things  I  had  been  doing.  The  advice  from  Germany 
was  to  the  same  effect.  Analyze  and  search  for  the  cause 
among  the  raw  materials.  I  had  outside  analyses  made  on 
these,  to  check  my  own  by,  and  no  clue  developed.  The 
board  of  directors  called  upon  me  collectively  and  singly  to 
offer  the  inane  suggestions  which  non-technical  men  always 
make  when  they  wish  to  be  helpful  over  a  technical  matter. 

A  week  before  Christmas  I  sat  staring  at  samples  of  my 
raw  materials  spread  over  the  laboratory  table.  Chitty  was 
rinsing  test  tubes  at  the  sink. 

"It  does  beat  the  devil,  Chitty,"  I  said,  "to  think  that 
the  answer  to  all  our  trouble  is  staring  right  at  us  from  one 
of  these  heaps  of  samples,  and  we  can't  find  it." 

"Yessir,"  Chitty  agreed.  "Don't  give  up,  sir;  'ave  another 
try." 

I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  was  three  o'clock;  the  short 
winter  day  was  already  dusk  without.  A  London  and  North- 
western express  screeched  past  our  windows. 

"I'd  like  my  overcoat,  please,  Chitty.  I'm  going  home." 
A  queer,  startled  look  came  into  his  face. 

"You're  not  giving  up,  Mister  Edward?  You  won't  tell 
them  you're  beaten?  'Ave  another  shot  at  your  last  experi- 
ment.    I  don't  mind  working  late  tonight,  sir." 

"Chitty,"  I  said,  "sometimes  it  pays  to  cut  your  losses  and 
start  afresh.  We're  up  a  blind  passage.  Let's  turn  round  and 
walk  out  of  it." 

He  helped   me  into   my  great  coat  with   a  doubtful   air. 

"Don't  let  them  say  it's  done  you  in,  sir,"  he  said.  "Come 
back  tomorrow  morning.     You  never  know  your  luck,  sir." 

"I'll  be  here  at  the  usual  time,  Chitty."  And  with  this 
I  left  him. 

My  father,  luckily,  was  in  when  I  got  back  to  Kensington. 


236  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

I  saw  him  studying  me  carefully  as  I  came  into  the  library 
and  sat  down.  He  laid  aside  his  pipe  and  waited.  I  was  in 
no  hurry  to  begin  speaking. 

"Discouraged,  Ted?"  my  father  at  last  inquired. 

"No.     I'm  through." 

"That  sounds  rather  tragic,  Ted.     Just  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  have  been  thinking  this  thing  over.  We've  reached  an 
absolutely  blank  wall.  I  can  neither  climb  over  it,  tunnel 
under  it,  nor  walk  around  it." 

"Facts,  please,"  my  father  interrupted.  "Cut  your  rhetoric." 
I  gave  him  a  brief  recapitulation  of  my  failure,  together  with 
my  reasons  for  believing  that  it  was  no  use  going  on  doing 
the  same  useless  experiments  over  and  over  again.  He 
listened  patiently,  without  giving  any  sign  of  emotion. 

"It  doesn't  make  pleasant  telling,"  I  ended,  "to  confess  one 
has  failed." 

"Have  you  your  laboratory  notebooks  and  diary  here?" 

"Yes,"  I  admitted,  "but  they  won't  mean  anything  to  you — 
they  are  mainly  full  of  chemical  formulae  and  abbreviated 
notes." 

"Nevertheless,  I  wish  to  see  them." 

I  went  out  to  my  bag  in  the  passage  and  brought  them  in. 

"I'm  not  a  scientist,  Ted,  but  it  isn't  common  sense  that 
an  experiment  which  you  can  do  on  a  small  scale  should 
fail  on  a  large  scale.     You  have  overlooked  something." 

"Shall  I  stay  and  explain  my  notes  to  you?" 

"No,  go  upstairs  and  talk  to  Helen." 

I  came  down  to  dinner  very  glum.  Helen  had  done  her 
best  to  buck  me  up ;  this  time,  however,  even  she  had  failed  to 
restore  my  confidence.  To  my  surprise,  my  father  was  all 
smiles,  hinting  the  while  at  mysterious  delights  to  come.  I 
thought  he  was  trying  to  cheer  me  up — an  annoying  thing 
to  have  any  one  do  when  one  has  resolved  to  be  miserable. 

"How  would  you  and  Helen  like  to  have  a  little  trip  all  by 
yourselves    at    Christmas — say    to    Winchester?     It    will    do 


NEW  LIFE  AND   NEW   LOVE  237 

Helen  good,  if  you  are  careful  not  to  let  her  get  tired."  This 
he  had  saved  up  for  dessert.  Helen  and  I  stared  at  each 
other,  not  entirely  certain  he  wasn't  having  a  joke  at  our 
expense. 

"I'm  serious,  children,"  he  added.  "Your  mother  and  I — 
with  Frances,  of  course — are  going  down  to  Hayling  Island. 
I  want  to  get  in  some  golf." 

"I  thought  we  were  hard  up,"  I  growled,  not  rid  of  my  sus- 
picions. 

"Well,  we've  enough  for  that,  I  think,  Ted.  The  plant  will 
be  running  full  blast  in  January." 

I  sat  up.  "What  have  found  out  from  my  notes?  Don't 
deceive  yourself,  father." 

He  laughed  uproariously.  "Thanks  for  the  advice.  But, 
Ted,  I'm  an  old  newspaper  man,  and  I  spent  a  good  many 
years  finding  out  things  I  was  not  supposed  to  know  about. 
When  I  went  over  your  notes  I  observed  something  I  think 
you  have  missed." 

My  face  burned.  If  true,  of  course  it  meant  I  was  a 
damned  incompetent  person  to  trust  with  a  responsible  job. 
I  felt  Helen's  hand  on  my  knee. 

"It  isn't  your  fault,  Ted — don't  look  so  melodramatic.  Now 
listen  to  me.  You  have  tested  and  analyzed  all  your  raw 
materials — and  have  bought  different  lots  of  them  from 
various  sources?" 

"Yes — I  have  been  all  over  the  market  for  them." 

"But  you  have  bought  your  most  important  reagent — a 
commercial  acid — from  only  one  particular  firm.  Did  you 
analyze  that  acid?" 

"No." 

"I  thought  not.     There  was  no  record  of  it  in  your  books." 

The  sensation  of  feeling  an  utter  fool  is  not  comfortable. 
It  was  the  even  pressure  of  Helen's  hand  on  my  knee  that 
kept  me  from  an  outburst.  The  instant  my  father  had  asked 
me  the  question  about  the  acid,  I  knew  he  had  found  the  only 
untested  link.     But  why  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  intelligent 


238  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

had  I  missed  it?  Simply  because  I  had  been  working  on  the 
set  idea  that  the  raw  materials  furnished  contained  somewhere 
an  impurity,  and  I  had  taken  the  reagent  on  faith. 

"Well,"  my  father  called  out  gaily,  "is  the  old  man  right?" 

"You  are  right,  and  I  have  been  wrong." 

"Damn  it,  Ted,  don't  be  so  ridiculous  with  that  long  jaw. 
It's  all  in  the  family.  Take  a  week  off  with  Helen  and  come 
back  fresh  to  your  job.     You  went  a  bit  stale,  that's  all." 

"My  going  stale  has  cost  you  a  lot  of  money,"  I  muttered. 

"Experience  always  costs  money,  Ted.  I  don't  grudge  pay* 
ing  for  it,  if  one  really  learns  from  it.  You  told  me  some- 
thing about  the  process  of  elimination  once.  The  next  time 
you  eliminate,  go  all  the  way." 

"The  consulting  chemists  we  called  in  didn't  find  the 
trouble." 

"No,  they  were  experts,  like  you." 

I  smiled  at  this,  because  I  knew  I  deserved  it. 

"That's  better,  Ted,"  my  father  said  when  he  saw  me  smile. 
"The  whole  trouble  has  been  that  you  lost  your  sense  of 
humour  over  this  job.     Don't  lose  it  again." 

"Suppose,"  I  said  at  bed-time  that  evening,"  that  we  find 
nothing  the  matter  with  the  acid?" 

"We'll  cross  that  bridge  when  we  come  to  it.  Now  you  and 
Helen  pack  up  in  the  morning,  clear  out  for  a  week,  and  I'll 
have  the  acid  examined  while  you  are  away." 

Upstairs,  I  sat  before  our  study  fire  without  daring  to  look 
at  Helen.  She  stopped  brushing  out  her  hair  and  perched  on 
the  arm  of  my  chair,  putting  her  cheek  against  mine. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say,  Ted?" 

"If  you  speak  the  truth  you'll  say  that  you  have  married 
an  incompetent  fool  who  messes  up  everything  he  tries  to 
do." 

"Don't  let  it  hurt  you  so,  Ted,  darling." 

"It  was  my  job  to  find  out,  and  I  didn't.  You  can't  get 
away  from  that." 

Helen  rumpled  my  hair  pensively.     Each  of  us  had  several 


NEW   LIFE   AND    NEW   LOVE  239 

things  to  say;  the  difficulty  was  to  say  them.     Helen  went  on 
silently  stroking  my  head. 

"I  try  to  think — why  the  devil  does  it  always  seem  after- 
wards as  if  I  hadn't  thought  at  all?" 

I  proposed  this  conundrum  to  her.  Helen  gave  me  her 
hand  to  kiss. 

"I  won't  be  so  stupid  as  to  try  to  make  excuses  for  you," 
said  Helen,  tucking  up  snugly  against  my  shoulder.  "Let's 
own  up  honestly  we  made  a  mistake,  Ted.  For  I  must  be 
to  blame  somewhere,  too.  Yes,  Ted  dear — I  know  it.  Don't 
go  on  shaking  your  head.  It  isn't  comfy.  We  mustn't  make 
a  mistake  like  this  again — that's  all.     It  isn't  like  us." 

"It  wasn't  just  a  case  of  putting  my  foot  in  it,  sweetheart. 
I  went  and  sat  down  in  the  spilt  milk." 

Helen  laughed  gently.  "Poor  old  boy,  your  pride  has  had 
a  nasty  knock,  hasn't  it?     So  has  mine,  dear." 

I  thought  this  over  in  silence.  We  were  young  enough  to 
take  each  other  tragically.  But  I  had  my  first  doubt  as  to 
whether  I  was  of  heroic  stuff — I  mean  that  for  the  first 
time  I  wondered  if  success  were  inevitably  mine.  Suppose  I 
was  only  a  commonplace  person  who  got  along  amiably 
enough,  yet  never  pulled  off  anything  big?  In  that  case 
all  the  hopes  Helen  had  in  me  would  prove  to  be  vain  dreams. 
Then  what  would  happen?  Would  she  love  me  then — or 
didn't  love  demand  the  heroic?  It  was  Knowlton  who  had 
made  Deep  Harbor  a  success,  and  now  my  father  had  stepped 
in  and  saved  me  again.  Where  was  the  missing  cog  in  my 
mechanism?  What  could  I  do — what  ought  I  to  do — how 
could  I  find  out? 

"It  isn't  your  fault,  hubby-boy,"  Helen  said,  her  face 
against  mine.  "You  aren't  meant  to  be  a  chemist.  Your 
father  has  had  you  learn  a  profession  which  at  best  is  no 
more  than  a  secret  anxiety  to  you.  It  haunts  you  with  a 
never-ending  fear,  because  it  is  not  really  your  work.  It's 
only  a  part  you  are  trying  to  play  to  please  him." 

I  sat  up  straight  and  stared  at  her. 

"I've  watched  you  every  day,  Ted,  sweetheart,  during  these 


240  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

months  we  have  been  together— and  I  have  seen  you  struggling 
to  fight  down  that  fear  of  failure  in  you.  You've  tried  to 
hide  it  from  me,  dearest" — she  smiled  and  shook  a  finger  at 
me — "you  can't  fool  me,  because  I  love  you.  I've  wanted 
to  tell  you  I  knew,  and  I  was  afraid,  if  I  did,  you  couldn't 
work  at  all." 

"Well,"  I  said  slowly,  "it's  true.  I  hate  chemistry — and  I 
have  always  hated  it — or  is  it  only  work  I  hate?" 

Helen  shook  her  head:  "We  must  get  to  your  real  work, 
Ted,  as  soon  as  we  can.  There  is  your  toy-theatre  all  ready 
for  you  on  top  of  the  bookcase.  We'll  begin  writing  for  it, 
dear.  When  the  company  is  all  right,  we'll  give  up  chemistry 
forever  and  begin  for  ourselves." 

I  stood  up  and  drew  her  to  me  under  the  light.  I  took  her 
face  in  both  my  hands,  turned  it  toward  mine,  and  looked 
into  her  grey  eyes. 

"Do  you  still  love  me,  Helen?" 

She  closed  her  eyes.  "So  much,  Ted,  it  hurts  and  hurts 
clear  down  in  me."  Her  hands  clutched  my  shoulders  until 
the  skin  grew  white  over  her  finger  knuckles.  .  .  . 


It  is  not  possible  that  two  persons  could  have  been  any 
happier  than  Helen  and  I  were  during  Christmas  week  at 
Winchester.  Others  may  have  equalled  our  happiness;  no 
couple  have  surpassed  it.  Not  only  was  it  the  first  time 
we  had  been  by  ourselves  since  on  board  the  steamer,  but 
also  Winchester  itself,  as  that  very  Camelot  we  had  made 
up  stories  about  in  the  woods  back  of  Deep  Harbor,  was  to  us 
a  speechless  delight.  I  had  not  been  there  before,  and  thus 
its  quaintness  was  as  new  to  me  as  to  Helen.  We  ate  and 
slept  in  a  hotel  somewhere  off  the  High  Street.  The  rest  of 
the  time  (despite  the  oncoming  event  of  Edward  Jevons, 
Junior)  we  wandered  about  or  sat  in  the  nave  of  the  long 
bare  cathedral.  Helen  actually  got  as  far  afoot  as  the  summit 
of  St.  Catherine's  hill.  We  took  a  fly  and  drove  out  to  St. 
Cross,    where   we   designed   a  new   dream  cottage   from   its 


NEW  LIFE  AND   NEW   LOVE  241 

mediaeval  gables  and  timbers.  The  same  faithful  fly  con- 
ducted us  to  other  delights  when  I  thought  Helen  had  walked 
enough.  There  are  more  things  in  Winchester  than  can  be 
set  down,  save  in  the  book  of  memory.  Jane  Austen's  house, 
the  cathedral,  the  school,  the  river  Itchen  where  old  Izaak 
Walton  fished — one  can  go  on  for  a  long  time  wandering 
among  mysteries  and  dreaming.  We  grew  technical  over 
architecture  and  had  an  argument  about  it  with  a  verger 
in  the  cathedral.  On  the  High  Street  we  likewise  discovered 
a  satisfactory  second-hand  book-shop  containing  a  lot  of 
theatrical  memoirs.  Joys  of  joys,  we  bought  ourselves  as  a 
Christmas  present  Bell's  British  Theatre,  complete  with  all  the 
plates!  To  be  sure,  it  was  but  a  shilling  a  volume;  yet  no 
collector  ever  walked  out  of  Christie's  more  proud  than  we. 
Forty  shillings  had  been  set  aside  for  Christmas  recklessness. 
Bell  and  his  collection  of  plays  made  quite  a  hole  in  this, 
even  at  only  a  shilling  a  volume. 

On  the  night  before  Christmas  there  was  a  telegram  from 
my  father.  The  trouble  had  been  successfully  located  in  the 
commercial  acid;  there  was  no  doubt  that  with  pure  acid  the 
trouble  of  manufacturing  would  be  cleared  up.  More  good 
news  was  to  come  next  morning.  There  was  a  letter  from 
Deep  Harbor  containing  a  present  of  one  hundred  dollars  for 
Helen,  as  well  as  the  announcement  that  her  father  purposed, 
from  this  time  forth,  to  give  his  daughter  one  hundred  dollars 
a  month  pocket  money. 

"Ted,  Ted!"  she  cried,  pouring  her  letter  and  its  contents 
into  my  lap,  her  eyes  dancing,  "we  can  get  all  the  books  we 
want!  See  here!  And  we'll  have  five  more  pounds  of  our 
own  to  spend  on  our  week-ends." 

Curiously  enough,  it  did  not  cross  the  mind  of  either  of  us 
that  we  could  possibly  have  any  other  use  for  that  money. 
Perhaps  we  had  been  badly  brought  up,  both  of  us — I  don't 
know.  At  any  rate  we  always  had  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  our 
extravagance.  And  on  this  morning,  as  soon  as  we  could 
get  there,  we  furiously  rang  the  doorbell  of  the  bookshop,  in 
spite  of  the  closed  shutters.     We  knew  we  could  rout  the 


242  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

old  codger,  the  owner,  out,  if  we  made  noise  enough,  for  he 
lived  over  his  shop.  He  grumbled  at  first;  then,  when  he 
found  us  equipped  to  buy,  cheerfully  let  us  in.  No,  we  did 
not  spend  all  of  the  twenty  pounds,  but  we  made  a  good  hole 
in  that,  too.  He  had  a  rather  good  Memoirs  of  Charles 
Matthews,  extra-illustrated.  It  was  a  new  kind  of  pleasure 
for  us  to  own  such  a  wanton  luxury  as  that. 

A  day  or  two  after  Boxing  Day  we  returned  to  London. 
Going  up  in  the  train,  I  said:  "Well,  Lady  Grey  Eyes,  the 
second  Christmas  didn't  turn  out  so  black  as  we'd  painted  it, 
did  it?"     Helen  simply  looked  things  at  me. 

"They'll  all  be  as  wonderful  as  this  one,  dear,"  I  added, 
Helen's  eyes  clouded.     "Don't  say  it,  Ted!     Don't!"   and 
she  touched  the  wood   of  the  railway   carriage  beside  her. 
We  were  alone  in  the  compartment,  so   my   reply  may  be 
imagined. 

It  was  some  time  in  the  spring  that  a  trained  nurse  came 
to  live  with  us  in  the  little  house  in  Kensington.  Her  advent 
set  the  whole  household  bustling  over  the  preparations  for 
the  expected  arrival  of  Edward  Jevons,  Jr.  It  was  my  mother 
who  insisted  upon  Helen's  having  a  nurse,  long  before  the 
day  was  due,  although  she  still  maintained  her  attitude  of 
being  officially  polite  to  Helen  and  almost  ignoring  my  exist- 
ence. I  had  not  yet  atoned  for  my  fatal  attempt  at  setting 
matters  right.  Things  were  going  swimmingly  at  the  factory. 
I  was  naturally  busy  enough,  for  I  had  to  train  the  whole  staff, 
with  the  result  that  production  was  not  yet  on  a  large  scale. 
But  what  we  were  making  was  right,  orders  were  coming  in, 
and  every  week  I  was  able  to  report  increased  production. 
Chitty  was  one  smile  as  he  watched  me  whistling  at  my  work. 

Helen  and  I  were  now  under  no  worry  or  anxiety  con- 
cerning the  event  to  befall  her.  The  doctor  was  cheery, 
Helen's  health  and  physique  were  splendid;  the  trained  nurse 
kept  a  sharp  lookout.  Our  only  regrets  were  over  the  in- 
terruptions of  our  week-ends  and  the  presence  of  the  con- 


NEW  LIFE  AND   NEW  LOVE  243 

founded  nurse  always  under  foot.  A  stranger  in  one's  house- 
hold, on  an  intimate  footing,  is  a  supreme  test  of  one's  for- 
bearance. It  must  also  be  quite  a  test  for  the  stranger.  This 
nurse  was  willing,  capable,  and  good-humoured;  yet  there 
were  times  when  Helen  and  I  wished  her  elsewhere.  She 
packed  Helen  off  to  bed  at  nine;  Helen  and  I  were  accustomed 
to  sitting  up  till  all  hours,  talking  or  reading  in  the  study. 
She  frowned  upon  the  theatre  and  forbade  the  pit  altogether, 
although,  now  Helen  and  I  were  in  funds,  that  prohibition 
did  not  worry  us  so  much.  We  were  not  permitted  to  dine 
of  a  Saturday  night  at  the  Cafe  Royal  or  have  luncheon  at 
Kettner's.  Indeed,  Helen's  diet  was  prescribed  for  her — 
a  great  hardship,  as  neither  of  us  liked  "wholesome"  food  and 
things  that  "were  good"  for  you.  I  had  to  feed  Helen 
chocolates  on  the  sly.  My  own  movements  were  curtailed, 
because  it  was  no  fun  doing  things  without  Helen.  Not  for 
worlds  would  I  have  bought  an  old  book  unless  Helen  were 
along  to  share  in  the  joy  of  the  purchase. 

About  Edward  Jevons,  Junior,  and  his  future  we  talked  very 
little.  We  were,  ridiculous  as  it  sounds,  a  little  shy  about 
him  and,  again,  we  thought  the  whole  idea  of  our  having  a 
baby  of  our  own  the  biggest  joke  imaginable.  It  did  seem  too 
absurd. 

"Ted,  I  simply  can't  imagine  a  baby!  I'm  not  sure  I  want 
one  interfering  with  us,  dear.     Isn't  it  dreadful?" 

I  couldn't  imagine  one,  either,  looking  at  Helen  sitting 
there  before  the  fire  in  a  dressing  gown  with  her  hair  down, 
to  please  me.  She  looked  almost  like  a  baby  herself.  Her 
face  was  still,  with  all  its  grave  and  tender  beauty,  the  face  of 
a  school-girl.  I  think  the  nurse  was  shocked  at  our  behaviour. 
She  used  to  lecture  us  on  the  care  and  rearing  of  infants.  I 
gathered  from  her  that  it  was  a  task  of  more  complexity  than 
we  had  realized. 

"I  suppose  they  will  get  colic?"  I  ventured,  as  a  contribu- 
tion to  the  discussion  one  day.  I  had  loosed  the  flood.  The 
nurse  insisted  upon  showing  me  a  medical  book  full  of  dis- 
gusting pictures,  containing  an  absolutely  terrifying  account 


244  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

of  the  things  that  could,  would,  and  did  happen  to  babies. 
Helen  had  to  rescue  me.  It  had  been  in  vain  for  me  to  pro- 
test that  I  should  always  send  for  a  doctor.  My  protests 
went  unheeded  until  Helen  spared  me  further  details. 

There  came  a  day  when  the  doctor  remained  after  his 
morning  call,  and  I  found  myself  banished  from  Helen's  bed- 
side. Nor  could  I  get  at  my  study,  because  that  opened  off 
Helen's  room.  I  had  time  only  to  kiss  Helen  hurriedly,  tell 
her  to  be  game,  and  glance  at  a  bassinette  which  had  been 
placed  in  the  room.  The  nurse  was  moving  about  in  her 
room,  and  Frances  had  been  sent  away  to  visit  some  friends. 
The  house  was  impossible;  and  yet  I  couldn't  go  out  to  the 
factory  at  Willesden.  I  was  driven  to  reading  a  political 
leader  in  The  Times.  The  country  appeared  to  be  in  a  bad 
way,  judging  from  what  I  read,  so  that  didn't  cheer  me  up. 
I  felt  somehow  that  I  ought  to  have  profound  emotions. 
Instead,  I  was  worried  fearfully  about  Helen  and  wanted  her. 
I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  pain. 

Once  or  twice  the  doctor  came  downstairs.  He  seemed, 
however,  to  consider  brusqueness  the  proper  professional 
attitude.  The  nurse  was  worse,  for  she  told  me  not  to  "bother" 
her,  when  I  asked  her  about  Helen.  She  refused  to  take  a 
note  up  to  Helen,  although  all  I  had  written  was  "love — Ted" 
on  a  slip  of  paper.  There  was  only  Sims,  my  mother's  maid, 
to  sympathize  with  me,  and  I  strongly  suspected  her  sympathy 
was  tinged  with  dislike  for  the  nurse.  Sims  had  refused  one 
morning  to  carry  up  hot  water  for  the  nurse.  My  mother 
had  promptly  squelched  that  incipient  revolt. 

"I  'ates  them  as  gives  themselves  airs  in  other  people's 
'ouses,"  had  been  Sims'  verdict  on  the  nurse.  "Fancy  'er 
speakin'  like  that  to  you,  Master  Ted,  when  it's  you  givin'  'er 
employment!     Stuck  up,  I  calls  it.     That's  wot  it  is." 

"You  mustn't  quarrel  with  the  nurse,  Sims.  It  would 
make  trouble  for  Mrs.  Ted  and  the  baby,"  I  felt  it  my  duty 
to  say. 

"Quarrel!"  exclaimed  Sims;  "not  likely!     Not  with  'er.     I 


NEW  LIFE  AND   NEW  LOVE  245 

wouldn't  stoop  to  give  'er  that  much  satisfaction" — and  Sims 
reported  elsewhere  in  answer  to  a  bell. 

The  nurse  and  I  faced  each  other  alone  at  luncheon;  my 
mother  ate  in  her  room,  ministered  to  by  Sims.  It  was  a 
painful  meal.  I  was  not  hungry,  and  I  could  think  of  nothing 
at  all  appropriate  to  say  to  my  companion.  She  ate  copiously 
— three  glasses  of  milk  I  saw  her  swallow  with  my  own  eyes. 
I  must  have  been  staring  at  her  noticeably,  for  she  said:  "I 
shan't  get  much  sleep  tonight,  I  expect.  I  need  to  save  my 
strength."  I  could  not  explain  to  her  that  drinking  milk 
always  set  up  a  barrier  between  me  and  the  person  who  did  it. 
She  would  not  understand.  It  was  the  nurse  who  gave  me 
the  knockout  blow,  upon  leaving  the  table. 

"It's  no  good  worrying  about  your  wife,  Mr.  Jevons.  They 
all  do  it  over  the  first  child.  You'll  soon  get  used  to  it, 
after  a  few  more,"  and  she  hurried  upstairs.  I  was  tempted 
to  pursue  her  to  argue  this.  What  sort  of  programme  did  she 
imagine  that  Helen  and  I  were  embarked  upon?  "At  least, 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it,"  I  said  to  myself,  "Helen  and  I 
have  never  discussed  this."  More  than  one  baby? — the 
thought  followed  me  about  the  room.  How  utterly  preposter- 
ous. H'm.  I  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  window.  The  idea 
was  overwhelming.  I  had  always  thought  of  Helen  and  me 
as  two  persons  going  through  life  together.  We  had  ac- 
cepted, without  yet  realizing  at  all  what  it  meant,  one  amend- 
ment to  our  original  plan.  But  the  nurse  had  conjured  up 
the  image  of  an  indefinite  sequence.  Clearly,  it  was  unthink- 
able. Yet  I  was  startled  to  consider  how  many  persons 
in  this  world  had  more  than  one  baby.  There  was  my  sister 
— making  two  in  this  very  house.  Chitty  had  six.  Examples 
multiplied  themselves  before  me.  "Helen,  of  course,  shall 
decide  this,"  was  the  rather  unexpectedly  sensible  conclusion 
I  finally  arrived  at.  It  was,  nevertheless,  a  disturbing  thought 
that  the  nurse  had  suggested. 

My  father  and  mother  went  out  to  dinner  by  themselves, 
after   asking  me   for   news.     None   had   come.     The   doctor 


246  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

urged  me  to  "clear  out  for  a  bit."  The  house  was  really  in- 
tolerable. "Come  back  about  ten,  if  you  like,"  he  said. 
I  tried  to  walk  to  Piccadilly.  The  task  was  impossible;  my 
knees  were  too  shaky.  I  took  a  hansom  to  the  Cafe  Royal 
and  sat  there  drinking  coffee  and  Benedictine.  The  waiter 
brought  me  a  French  comic  paper.  My  sense  of  humour  was 
not  equal  to  it.  At  half  past  nine  I  bought  Helen  some  violets 
at  the  expensive  little  flower  stall  on  the  way  out.  Its 
flowers  were  probably  intended  for  demi-mondaines — at  least, 
the  price  indicated  that  fact — but  the  violets  had  as  yet 
suffered  no  contamination.  "It  will  make  Helen  smile,"  I 
thought,  "when  I  tell  her  where  I  got  them  and  with  what  a 
knowing  air  the  yellow-haired  vulture  behind  the  counter  sold 
them  to  me."  At  the  bookstall  I  got  Helen  some  French 
papers  and  the  Paris  New  York  Herald.  I  hesitated  over 
chocolates — there  was  no  likelihood,  I  reflected,  of  running 
the  night's  blockade  with  them.  Instead,  I  went  back  into 
the  cafe  and  had  the  waiter  wrap  me  up  a  bottle  of  green 
Chartreuse.  Helen  loved  it.  "C'est  pour  une  malade"  I  told 
the  waiter.  He  grew  sympathetic  at  once,  suggesting  jellied 
bouillon  in  glass.  I  took  a  pint  of  it,  as  well  as  a  truffled  pate 
of  chicken,  "en  aspic."  The  waiter  scratched  his  head,  but 
could  think  of  nothing  more.  I  gave  him  half  a  crown  for 
himself,  while  the  dignified  doorman  called  me  a  hansom. 

It  was  after  ten  when  I  arrived  at  Kensington.  Still  no 
news.  I  did  not  dare  ask  the  nurse  to  take  my  gifts  up  to 
Helen.  Besides,  Helen  preferred  to  have  me  give  her  things 
with  my  own  hands.  My  mother  had  retired;  soon  after,  my 
father  went.  I  sat  down  to  wait.  I  smoked  many  pipes, 
striving  to  keep  awake.  Sims,  faithful  soul,  brought  me  a 
bottle  of  stout  with  a  plate  of  biscuits  on  her  way  to  bed. 
Twelve,  one,  two  o'clock  came.  The  house  was  quiet.  Two 
or  three  times  I  dozed  off,  to  awake  with  a  start.  My  pipe 
failed  me  at  last,  and  I  fell  asleep  in  my  father's  favourite 
arm-chair. 

I  was  aware  that  some  one  was  shaking  me  violently  by 


NEW  LIFE  AND   NEW   LOVE  247 

the  shoulder.  I  opened  my  eyes,  blinking,  wondering  what 
had  happened.  I  saw  the  nurse  standing  over  me.  Realiza- 
tion returned  with  a  rush.     I  started  to  my  feet,  terrified. 

"Mr.  Jevons,  you  have  a  daughter,"  she  said.  "Mrs.  Jevons 
is  all  right  and  can  see  you  presently." 

"A  d-daughter?"  I  stammered,  not  able  to  assimilate  this 
statement  in  my  dazed  condition. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Jevons,  it's  a  girl.  Eight  pounds — a  normal 
baby." 

The  nurse  immediately  left  the  room,  not  pausing  to  answer 
any  further  questions.  "A  daughter,"  I  thought — "but  we 
haven't  got  a  name  for  a  girl !  What  will  we  call  it?"  Helen 
had  been  so  confident  it  would  be  Edward  Jevons,  Junior!  I 
paced  up  and  down  the  room.  A  few  minutes  more  brought 
the  doctor,  all  smiles,  his  brusqueness  vanished.  He  warmly 
shook  my  hand,  telling  me  I  could  go  upstairs  for  a  short 
visit.  I  hastily  gathered  together  my  presents  for  Helen  and 
dashed  for  her  room.  The  nurse  intercepted  me  at  the  door 
to  slow  me  down.  I  entered  on  tiptoe.  There  lay  Helen  in 
bed,  looking  more  beautiful  than  I  had  ever  dreamed,  a  little 
smile  of  welcome  on  her  lips.  I  laid  the  violets  on  her,  but 
the  nurse  snatched  the  other  things  away  from  me.  She  had, 
however,  the  tact  to  leave  us.  I  kneeled  beside  the  bed  and 
held  Helen's  hand.  We  looked  at  each  other.  I  kissed  her 
gently  on  the  mouth. 

"Ted,"  she  whispered,  "it's  a  girl." 

I  nodded.  "I  ought  to  feel  sorry,  Ted,  but  I  don't."  I 
nodded  again. 

"Our  baby,  Ted.     Ours.     Just  think!" 

I  kissed  her,  and  then  she  put  my  hand  against  her  cheek. 
I  leaned  close  and  whispered  things  that  made  her  smile. 

"What  shall  we  call  it,  Ted?" 

"There  is  only  one  name  for  our  baby — and  that  is  Helen." 

She  looked  wonderfully  at  me,  her  eyes  shining. 

"You  want  to  call  it  that,  Ted  darling?" 

I  nodded  and  kissed  her.     The  nurse  entered. 


248  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"Time's  up,  Mr.  Jevons.  You  can  look  in  again  after 
breakfast.     I  do  believe  you  haven't  seen  the  baby!" 

Helen  and  I  looked  guiltily  at  each  other.  The  nurse 
brought  a  tiny  bundled-up  object  for  my  inspection. 

"It  doesn't  look  like  either  of  us,"  I  said,  rather  taken  aback 
by  its  appearance. 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  red  creature!"  Helen  giggled. 

The  nurse  was  deeply  shocked.  I  winked  at  Helen.  The 
nurse  laid  the  baby  at  her  mother's  breast.  I  stood  for  a 
moment,  a  queer  feeling  inside  me  at  this  sight.  Then  I 
bent  over  Helen  again. 

"I  love  you  both,  sweetheart." 

The  nurse  drove  me  from  the  room. 


Chapter   Fifteen 
we    begin    to    live 

TOWARD  the  end  of  the  summer  we  were  all  prospering. 
The  factory  business  was  coming  up  to  expectations, 
the  new  baby  was  developing  into  a  lusty  child,  and 
even  my  mother  had  ceased  to  be  openly  antagonistic.  She 
was  not  entirely  cordial,  and  she  still  kept  a  certain  distance 
between  herself  and  Helen — a  distance  which,  strangely 
enough,  also  included  Helen's  baby;  nevertheless,  there  were 
occasions  when  she  seemed  to  forget  her  attitude.  We  spent 
several  week-ends  in  the  country  as  a  family,  and  no  in- 
cident occurred  to  disturb   either  Helen  or  me. 

In  fact,  the  prosperity  and  good  nature  were  so  general 
that  once  or  twice  Helen  and  I  slipped  away  to  look  at  little 
houses  in  the  suburban  country.  We  found  the  very  thing 
we  wanted  at  a  small  village  in  Hertfordshire,  not  far  from 
St.  Albans.  It  was  a  modern  house,  but  it  had  a  red-tiled 
roof  and  a  pleasant  garden  of  its  own.  "Ten  minutes  from 
the  station,"  the  agent  said.  He  was  a  brisk  walker.  Helen 
went  into  raptures  over  the  interior.  She  counted  up  seven 
bedrooms,  four  on  the  second,  three  above.  "Just  the  right 
number,"  she  announced.  It  was  a  surprise  to  me  that  seven 
bedrooms  were  our  lucky  quota.  I  was  rather  vague  about 
bedrooms,  never  having  thought  out  how  many  we  should 
need.  Downstairs  there  was  a  sitting-room,  a  dining-room, 
another  room,  the  kitchen,  and  what  the  agent,  once  more,  re- 
ferred to  as  "the  usual  offices."  There  was  a  porcelain  bath, 
so  shiny  and  white  that  had  we  had  any  money  the  matter 
would  have  been  settled  then  and  there. 

We  went  back  to  Kensington  with  the  news  of  our  dis- 
covery.    After   hearing   the   price — for   the   property  was   a 

249 


250  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

freehold — my  father  inquired  if  it  was  actually  what  Helen 
and  I  really  wanted.     We  assured  him  it  was. 

"Very  well,"  my  father  overwhelmed  us  by  saying;  "if 
you  want  it,  you  shall  have  it." 

He  and  my  mother,  it  appeared,  were  going  to  Paris  for  a 
year,  partly  for  the  sake  of  my  sister's  education.  They  had 
already  decided  to  give  up  the  Kensington  house,  leaving 
Helen  and  me  on  our  own.     Our  plans  fitted  in  with  theirs. 

"You  may  call  the  house  a  belated  wedding  present,"  my 
father  said. 

In  due  time  the  agent  and  solicitors  from  far  and  near 
brought  their  endless  papers,  my  father  wrote  out  a  check, 
we  all  signed  our  names  a  great  many  times,  and  the  house 
was  ours.  Nor  did  my  father's  generosity  stop  there.  Another 
check  was  handed  to  Helen.  My  father  told  her  to  furnish  the 
house  as  well  as  she  could  with  it.  That  evening  Helen  and 
I  sat  up  half  the  night,  making  out  lists  of  things.  I  wrote 
them  down  and  Helen  thought  them  out.  Pots  and  pans 
seemed  extraordinarily  numerous.  We  were  interrupted  only 
by  the  younger  Miss  Helen  demanding  nourishment. 

For  the  next  two  weeks  we  trudged  up  and  down  Tottenham 
Court  Road  shopping.  Such  discussions  and  arguments  as» 
Helen  had  with  shop  assistants;  such  checking  of  catalogues 
and  comparing  of  prices!  I  suggested  getting  a  lump  price  on 
the  whole  thing  from  one  shop,  thus  simplifying  the  process. 
My  commonsense  suggestion  was  emphatically  vetoed.  It 
simply  wasn't  done  that  way — not  when  one  furnished  a  house. 
I  rather  liked  to  sit  on  the  edge  of  a  counter  and  listen  to 
Helen  bullying  young  shopmen.  I  marvelled  at  her  persist- 
ence, to  say  nothing  of  her  obstinacy  in  getting  them  around 
to  her  demands.  She  accepted  no  provisos  and  exceptions. 
The  daily  struggle  would  have  worn  me  out;  she  returned 
to  it  fresh  each  morning,  armed  at  all  points  cap-a-pie.  Each 
evening  we  laid  plans  for  the  action  of  the  following  day. 
We  were  buying  the  minimum  of  furniture;  the  rest  we  hoped 
to  pick  up  second-hand,  old  cottage  tables  and  the  like.  We 
did,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  make  one  or  two  by-excursions  down 


WE   BEGIN   TO   LIVE  251 

the  Fulham  Road  to  see  the  antique  shops.  We  found  the 
owners  of  these  shops,  however,  too  canny  for  our  purposes. 
They  fancied  that  Helen  and  I  were  American  tourists  and 
stuck  their  prices  up  accordingly. 

The  family  listened  with  obvious  amusement,  during  dinner 
each  night,  to  our  adventures  and  progress.  They  offered  no 
advice,  nor  did  we  seek  any,  for  we  wanted  to  do  it  alone. 
Occasionally  Helen  and  my  mother  conferred  over  the  contents 
of  the  kitchen.  Not  everything  bore  the  same  name  as  in 
America.  Helen  had  to  ask  what  the  English  equivalents 
were. 

Coming  out  of  Kettner's  one  day  in  Soho,  I  observed  a 
fascinating  row  of  copper  sauce-pans  hanging  in  a  smelly 
little  French  shop.  I  made  Helen's  growing  equipment  a 
present  of  this  addition.  "You  can  do  me  a  poussin  saute, 
granmere,  en  casserole,"  I  explained.  It  was  Helen's  turn 
to  look  a  little  vague. 

We  set  the  first  of  October  as  the  date  on  which  we  hoped 
to  move  in.  We  were  having  the  walls  done  and  a  kitchen 
range  installed.  Time  was  no  object  whatever  to  the  group 
of  men  who  had  taken  over  these  two  jobs. 

"Probably,"  I  said  to  Helen,  "they  are  enjoying  a  summer 
in  the  country." 

"I  hope  they  don't  remain  over  for  the  hunting,"  she  an- 
swered, thereby  proving  that  she  had  begun  to  read  Punch 
to  some  purpose. 

The  day  actually  did  come  at  last.  We  sent  off  one  van 
load  from  Kensington,  said  good-bye  until  next  Sunday  to 
the  family,  bundled  nurse  and  the  baby  into  a  one-horse 
omnibus,  and,  accompanied  by  Chitty  as  general  handy  man, 
drove  off  for  Euston.  Our  village  was  on  the  London  and 
Northwestern. 

We  no  longer  had  the  trained  nurse,  of  course,  but  a 
plain  ordinary  everyday  nurse,  who,  according  to  Helen, 
was  most  unscientific.  Helen  had  been  reading  up  in  that 
abominable  book  on   the   horrors   of  babies.     I    wanted   to 


252  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

show  baby  the  horse,  but  Helen  informed  me  the  child  was  as 
yet  quite  unable  to  appreciate  the  privilege. 

All  this  by  the  way.  We  were  more  excited  over  the 
journey  to  our  new  home  than  we  had  been  on  our  wedding- 
day.     We  were  now  definitely  for  ourselves. 

"No  one  to  care  if  I  spill  pipe  ashes  on  the  rugs,"  I  said. 
I  judged  from  Helen's  reception  of  this  that  my  illustration 
of  liberty  was  not  well-chosen.  "I  mean,"  I  went  on,  to  make 
amends,  "that  you  will  be  at  home  in  your  own  house,  able 
to  do  just  as  you  like."  This  was  clearly  a  much  better  ex- 
ample of  my  thought. 

We  went  first  class,  because  of  the  baby.  Helen  thought 
first-class  carriages  would  have  fewer  germs  in  them.  It 
had  an  added  advantage:  we  had  the  compartment  to  our- 
selves, except  for  the  nurse.     Chitty  went  third. 

At  the  station  Chitty  highly  incensed  the  only  porter  by 
taking  charge  of  all  our  luggage.  In  some  miraculous  fashion 
he  also  packed  us  all  into  one  fly,  seating  himself  beside 
the  driver.  We  drove  up  to  our  new  home  in  state,  Helen 
and  I  hand  in  hand,  the  baby  cooing  from  the  nurse's  shoulder. 

Inside  we  found  a  solitary  representative  of  the  kitchen- 
range-and-decorating  crew,  who  informed  us  that  he  had  not 
as  yet  been  able  to  "connect  the  range,"  but  that  this  would 
certainly  be  accomplished  in  two  or  three  days.  Until  then 
we  could  not  build  a  fire  in  it  or  do  any  cooking.  Helen  and 
I  sat  down  on  our  luggage  for  a  counsel  of  war  over  the 
situation.  Should  we  send  nurse  and  the  baby  back  to 
Kensington?     It  was  Chitty  who  solved  the  problem. 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  touching  his  forelock,  "but 
I  could  build  a  bit  of  fire  in  the  back  garden,  sir,  and  do 
the  cooking  on  that." 

Helen  and  I  leaped  at  the  proposal.  It  was  the  very  thing! 
Nurse  made  it  evident  she  did  not  approve  it.  We  overruled 
her,  and  I  gave  Chitty  immediate  instructions  to  prepare 
luncheon.  He  took  a  box  of  matches  and  a  frying  pan  and 
stepped  outside. 


WE   BEGIN   TO   LIVE  253 

Soon  the  vans  arrived,  for  they  had  left  town  early  in  the 
morning.  There  also  came  a  cook  and  a  housemaid,  engaged 
a  month  ago  from  a  local  employment  agency.  The  cook's 
indignation  at  the  condition  of  the  range  knew  no  bounds. 
She  was  not  pacified  by  being  shown  Chitty  hard  at  work 
in  the  garden.  The  smoke  from  his  camp  fire  had  already 
attracted  the  attention  of  two  or  three  female  neighbours. 
Helen's  tact  disposed  of  the  cook  for  the  time  being.  I 
went  out  to  see  how  Chitty  was  getting  along. 

"What  are  we  eating,  Chitty?" 

"Sausages  and  fried  tomatoes,  sir,"  he  answered  with  the 
customary  salute. 

"Mind  you  do  enough  for  the  lot  of  us,"  I  instructed  him. 

"Very  good,  sir." 

I  carried  a  deal  table  into  the  dining  room,  for  the  regular 
furniture  was  mostly  in  a  chaotic  pyramid  on  the  pavement 
in  front.  Helen  found  knives,  forks,  and  plates.  The  house- 
maid appeared  to  be  paralyzed  by  circumstances.  She  was  of 
little  or  no  assistance.  So  it  was  that,  amid  gales  of  laughter 
from  Helen,  we  sat  down  to  the  first  meal  under  our  own 
roof. 

"The  devil  of  it  all  is,"  I  philosophized  to  her,  between 
bites,  "that  nothing  in  this  world  ever  turns  out  as  one  has 
imagined  it  will.  Now,  the  number  of  times  we  have  pictured 
ourselves  eating  our  first  dinner  in  our  own  home — " 

"But  what  oceans  more  fun  it  is,  like  this,"  Helen  inter- 
rupted. 

"There  is  a  great  deal  in  your  point  of  view,  lady  with 
the  nice  eyes,"  I  agreed,  carving  her  a  wedge  of  bread  from 
a  household  loaf.  "What  do  you  think,  littlest  Helen?"  I 
added,  turning  to  the  baby,  who  sat,  a  solemn  spectator,  on 
nurse's  lap. 

"Now,  Ted,  please  don't  stir  the  baby  up  when  she's  being 
good,"  Helen  cautioned.  She  always  said  that  if  I  approached 
the  child. 

"When,"  I  asked  with  mock  irony,  "will  my  daughter  reach 


254  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

such  an  age  of  discretion  that  I  may  be  permitted  to  converse 
with  her?" 

"You  are*  being  silly,  Ted.  If  you'll  promise  to  carry 
her  about  afterwards  until  she  stops  howling,  you  can  speak 
to  her  now." 

"I  refuse  your  terms,  and  repudiate  the  vile  implied  slander," 
I  returned,  winking  at  the  younger  Helen.  I  believe  the  child 
sided  with  me.  I  poured  myself  a  glass  of  stout  and  solemnly 
drank  the  baby's  health.  She  continued  to  stare  at  me,  not 
displeased. 

"Ted,  you  dear  idiot,"  exclaimed  Helen,  jumping  up  and 
kissing  me  in  defiance  of  the  nurse's  presence. 

"You  have  stout  on  your  lips — serve  you  right,"  I  said 
to  the  now  retreating  Helen.  She  scrubbed  her  face  violently 
with  a  handkerchief  no  bigger  than  a  postage  stamp. 

"'Men  are  disgusting  creatures." 

"They  are,"  I  mused;  "yet  women  love  them."  I  drank 
deep  of  the  stout. 

"Ted,  I'll  shake  you  if  you  don't  behave."  Sftie  made  a 
series  of  cabalistic  signs  at  me,  which,  I  took  it,  had  reference 
to  nurse.     "It's  time  for  baby's  nap." 

"Coward  woman,"  I  ejaculated,  *'you  are  afraid  of  me." 

"Will  you  walk  up  to  the  nursery  and  set  up  the  baby's 
crib?" 

"Not  unless  I  am  paid  in  advance." 

Helen  hastily  dabbed  a  kiss  on  my  cheek.  "Now,  Ted, 
please!" 

"I  obey,  Omphale.     Call  in  Chitty." 

"Call  him  in  yourself,"  was  Helen's  parting  shot. 

Chitty  and  I  laboured  some  time  setting  up  beds,  beginning 
with  the  crib  in  the  nursery.  Though  the  heavens  were  to 
fall,  the  baby  had  to  have  a  nap  at  precisely  two  o'clock 
every  afternoon.  We  were  interrupted  once  by  Helen,  who 
reported  that  cook,  housemaid,  and  nurse  alike  had  refused 
point  blank  to  eat  any  of  Chitty's  cooking.  It  ended  by  our 
sending  them  all  off  to  a  public  house,  near  the  station,  where 
food  was  obtainable. 


WE  BEGIN  TO  LIVE  255 

"An  ominous  look-out  until  we  get  that  range  going,"  I 
growled. 

"I  wish  we  had  a  Polish  girl  from  Deep  Harbor,"  was 
Helen's  comment  after  her  first  run-in  with  English  servants. 

"I  had  rather  have  a  Pole  from  Deep  Harbor  than  an 
American  from  Warsaw,"  I  amended. 

"That  is  nonsense,  Ted,"  Helen  said. 

"It  isn't,  if  you  think  it  over,"  I  replied. 

Chitty  and  I  resumed  setting  up  beds.  At  the  end  of  the 
first  hour  I  paused.     My  face  was  moist. 

"Chitty,"  I  observed,  "living  is  composed  of  a  great  many 
details.  Take  a  bed,  for  example.  You  find  them  in  lots 
of  rooms,  looking  harmless  enough.  It  is  only  when  you 
analyze  them,  or,  more  correctly  speaking,  synthetize  them 
— if  that  is,  in  fact,  the  word — that  you  realize  their  com- 
plexity." 

"Yessir,"  said  Chitty.  "It's  'ard  work  for  a  gentleman,  I 
dare  say." 

"Then  dare  say  so  no  longer.     On  with  our  task." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

Gradually  we  reached  the  top  of  the  house  and  the  end 
of  the  infernal  job.  Helen  appeared  again.  "Do  we  have 
tea?"  she  asked. 

*How  long  since  is  it,  madam,"  I  asked  sternly,  "that  after- 
noon tea  became  a  necessity  in  your  life?  Shall  we  tolerate 
this  aping  of  foreign  customs?" 

"I  can  easily  make  the  madam  a  cup  of  tea,  sir,"  Chitty 
cut  in,  a  shade  of  anxiety  in  his  tone. 

"Then  let  the  madam  have  her  tea,"  I  answered,  "since 
her  throat  burns." 

"Ted,"  said  Helen,  as  Chitty  disappeared,  "how  am  I 
going  to  have  any  discipline  among  the)  servants  if  you 
persist  in  making  a  damn  fool  of  yourself  in  their  presence?" 

"A  what,  madam?"  I  inquired. 

"A  damn  fool,"  said  Helen  firmly. 

"You  shall  pay  dear  for  that,  madam,"  I  exclaimed,  seiz- 


256  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

ing  her.  It  was  several  minutes  later  that  we  went  back  to 
our  dining  room  for  tea,  our  arms  about  one  another  like  a 
Bank  holiday  couple  at  Hampstead  Heath. 

Chitty  provided  a  tin  of  tea,  black  as  Cimmerian  darkness. 
The  furniture  had  by  now  been  removed  from  the  pavement 
and  piled  in  smaller  individual  pyramids  in  each  room. 

"It  looks  absolutely  hopeless,  Ted,"  said  Helen,  shudder- 
ing over  a  taste  of  Chitty's  tea,  as  well  she  might.  "Shall  we 
ever  get  settled?" 

"I  am  so  comfortable,"  I  replied,  "that  it  is  a  matter  of 
complete  indifference  to  me.     Let's  live  as  we  are." 

At  this  moment  a  surprise  arrived.  The  family,  whether 
suspecting  the  result  of  our  first  day's  housekeeping,  or  out 
of  sheer  good  will,  had  sent  us  a  large  hamper  of  food 
from  Fortnum  and  Mason's.  There  was  a  bottle  of  champagne 
to  give  the  final  glow.  No  need  for  Chitty  to  cook  any  more 
that  day.  We  summoned  him  from  his  tea.  I  verily  believe 
he  had  consumed  two  quarts  of  that  brew  of  his — proof 
positive  that  the  British  army  is  made  of  stern  stuff,  "hearts 
of  oak  and  tummies  of  copper,"  Helen  ventured. 

"Sailors,  my  dear — for  hearts  of  oak — not  soldiers,"  I 
corrected. 

"I'm  right  about  the  tummies,"  Helen  rebutted  stub- 
bornly. .  .  . 

"Chitty,"  I  commanded,  "this  room  must  be  set  right.  The 
madam  dines  here  tonight." 

"Very  good,  sir."  Chitty  saluted,  not  a  trace  of  a  smile 
visible.  In  half  an  hour  he  had  done  wonders.  Its  normal 
appearance  three  quarters  emerged  from  the  confusion  left 
behind  by  the  van  men. 

We  set  the  hamper  in  the  centre  of  our  gate-legged  table, 
Helen's  especial  pride.  Real  ones  were  even  then  becoming 
hard  to  pick  up.  Helen  lighted  the  candles  herself,  refusing 
to  hear  of  gas  or  of  assistance.  There  followed  a  feast.  Cold 
pheasant,  boned  turkey,  fonds  d'artichaut,  bottled  asparagus 
d'Argenteuil,  cakes  and  wine  jellies,  with  champagne  to  top 


WEBEGINTOLIVE  257 

it   all   off.     We  made   our   own  coffee  over  a  spirit  lamp. 

With  the  third  glass  of  champagne  I  was  all  for  bringing 
the  younger  Helen  down  from  the  nursery,  as  we  called  it, 
to  respond  to  her  health.  On  this  point  her  mother  was  im- 
movable.    The  child's  slumber  was  not  disturbed. 

"Madam" — I  arose,  addressing  my  wife — '"once  more  per- 
mit me  to  point  out  to  you  that  this  is  not  at  all  like  the  first 
dinner  we  once  planned." 

"I  think  you  have  had  enough  champagne,  Ted,"  was  the 
woman's  irrelevant  response.  "Let's  give  the  last  glass  to 
Chitty." 

"An  excellent  idea  and  a  kindly  thought,  worthy  of  your 
woman's  heart." 

Once  more  Chitty  was  summoned.  His  eyes  stared  amaze- 
ment when  I  poured  him  a  glass  of  champagne. 

"Thank  you,  sir.  Thank  you,  madam,"  and  he  tossed  it 
off  with  a  neat  jerk  of  his  head.  Meanwhile  Helen  made 
him  up  a  heaping  plate  of  food  from  the  hamper. 

"Thank  you,  madam." 

He  went  out,  carrying  his  ration  carefully.  We  finished 
our  coffee  sitting  on  a  rug  before  the  fire,  Helen  tucked  up 
comfortably  against  me. 

We  made  heroic  efforts  all  the  week  to  get  the  house 
settled  by  Sunday.  Chitty  came  out  by  train  each  morning 
to  perform  prodigies  of  strength  in  placing  furniture.  Our 
eagerness  to  be  ready  by  Sunday  was  owing  to  the  fact  that 
we  had  invited  the  family  to  spend  the  day  with  us.  Helen 
was  extremely  nervous  about  the  critical  eye  she  knew  my 
mother  would  cast  over  our  housekeeping.  Poor  Helen  had 
never  kept  house  before,  let  alone  in  a  land  where  many 
ways  and  customs  were  still  strange  to  her.  We  drew  up  the 
plan  for  dinner  a  dozen  times,  trying  to  include  things  that 
would  please  my  mother's  taste  and  rejecting  everything  we 
feared  was  doubtful. 

We  explored  the  shops  in  the  village,  choosing  a  butcher,  a 


258  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

grocer,  a  greengrocer,  and  a  fishmonger  after  minute  in- 
vestigation. There  was  also  the  question  of  the  baby's  milk. 
The  milkman,  who  took  Helen's  searching  inquiries  rather  light- 
heartedly,  finally  told  her  he  would  "earmark"  one  special 
cow  for  her. 

"What  on  earth  did  he  mean  by  that,  Ted?"  she  said,  as 
we  pursued  our  way  up  the  High  Street.  "Will  he  brand 
the  cow  in  the  ear  so  he  can  tell  her  from  the  others?" 

I  leaned  against  a  convenient  lamp-post  to  laugh.  Helen 
grew   quite  indignant. 

"Ted,  you  are  making  an  exhibition  of  yourself  in  the  public 
street!" 

"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  I  apologized.  "But  you  conjured  up  a 
vision  in  my  mind  of  that  good  English  yoeman  swinging 
on  to  his  broncho  in  the  early  dawn  to  ride  forth  and  rope 
your  cow,  while  the  Mexican  peons  dash  up  with  the  branding 
irons — and  all  for  a  cow's  ear." 

"It  may  all  be  very  funny,"  Helen  snorted,  "but  I  really 
think  baby's  milk  is  more  important  than  your  silly  idea 
of  humour." 

It  was  not  often  that  we  failed  to  agree  on  a  laugh. 

"What  is  the  joke,  Ted?" 

"The  milkman,  my  dear,  has  been  reading  the  speeches 
of  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  He  is  quoting  a  favourite 
phrase — that  a  certain  item  of  revenue  has  been  earmarked 
for  a  particular  purpose.  Thus  he  thought  it  good  to  ear- 
mark his  cows.  It's  awful,  my  dear,  when  a  joke  has  to  be 
explained." 

"I  don't  think  it  was  much  of  a  joke,  now  you  have  explained 
it,"  said  Helen. 

"Probably  not,"  I  agreed.  "But  you  put  it  to  a  very  severe 
test.  It  would  have  to  be  a  remarkable  joke  to  survive  an 
analytical  lecture." 

"You  are  as  clumsy  as  an  elephant  this  morning,  Ted." 

We  left  the  joke  at  that. 


WE   BEGIN   TO  LIVE  259 

By  Sunday  we  had  established  some  sort  of  order  and 
routine  in  the  house.  Not  all  the  curtains  were  up,  an 
omission  which  gave  Helen  distress.  Curtains  up,  it  ap- 
peared, was  one  of  the  first  tests  of  housekeeping  ability. 
There  was  no  rug  for  the  dining  room.  Otherwise  we  felt 
we  had  done  rather  well,  as  we  surveyed  our  preparations. 
From  now  on  we  should  have  to  manage  without  Chitty, 
who  was  to  return  Monday  to  his  work  at  the  Willesden  factory. 

Taking  stock  of  our  situation,  we  agreed  that  the  sitting 
room  would  pass  inspection.  There  was  not  much  furniture 
in  it,  because  we  hoped  later  to  pick  up  one  or  two  good 
bits  for  it.  It  had,  nevertheless,  curtains  and  comfortable 
chairs.  The  extra  room  downstairs  was  our  study,  with  all 
our  books — a  decent  lot,  too — around  the  walls.  It  also 
contained  a  good  mahogany  desk  with  over-shelves — but 
there  were  no  curtains  here.  The  dining  room  was  likewise 
nearly  done,  save  for  the  rug.  Upstairs  our  bedroom  and  the 
nursery  were  complete;  only  the  guest  room  remained  to  be 
furnished.  The  odd  bedroom  was  to  be  turned  into  a  labora- 
tory for  me;  as  yet  nothing  had  been  done  to  it.  On  the 
top  floor  the  cook  and  housemaid  lived  in  solitary  state 
with  an  extra  empty  room  between  them.  Such  was 
the  result  of  our  final  look  around  before  the  family  was 
due. 

They  arrived  about  twelve,  driven  up  by  the  station  fly, 
which  worthily  upheld  all  the  conservative  traditions  of  village 
cabs.  Napoleon  might  well  have  driven  from  the  field  of 
Waterloo  in  it. 

Frances  was  the  first  to  rush  forward  to  greet  us,  dashing 
into  the  house  like  a  Newfoundland  puppy  that  has  just  been 
let  off  its  leash.  My  father  and  mother  followed  more 
sedately.  Helen  took  my  mother  upstairs,  while  Frances 
was  running  all  over  the  place  on  her  own,  poking  into 
everything.  My  father  sat  down  in  the  study  and  got  out 
his  pipe. 

"Satisfied,  Ted?"  he  asked,  as  he  began  to  consume  matches. 


260  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  answered.  "'I  can't  imagine  what  more  one 
could  want" 

"End  of  the  chapter,  eh,  Ted?" 

"With  the  addition  of  'and  they  lived  happily  ever  after- 
wards.' " 

My  father  took  a  wire  and  ran  it  through  the  stem  of  his 
pipe. 

"About  the  future  which  you  have  just  mentioned.  Your 
mother  and  sister  will  be  on  the  Continent  probably  for 
several  years.  I  shall  be  with  them  a  good  deal  of  the 
time.  I  am  going  to  make  you  a  director  in  the  company 
to  look  after  my  interests  and  your  own.  That  will  not, 
however,  take  much  of  your  time.  You'll  be  free  there- 
fore, to  do  whatever  you  wish.  I  am  definitely  putting  you 
and  Helen  on  your  own  feet.  If  you  need  advice  or  help,  you 
know  where  to  turn — otherwise,  go  ahead  and  run  your  own 
show." 

Any  reply  I  might  have  made  was  cut  short  by  Helen's 
entrance  with  my  mother.  My  father  joined  us  in  a  solemn 
visit  to  the  whole  house.  The  nursery  received  the  closest 
inspection.  Nurse  was  holding  a  very  pink  and  well  scrubbed 
baby,  dressed  in  her  Sunday  best.  The  crib  was  ordered 
nearer  the  window;  that  was  the  only  flaw  discovered  in  what 
Helen  and  I  felt  to  be  the  crucial  room.  We  breathed  easier, 
once  by  that.  But  a  difficulty  developed  over  the  proposed 
laboratory.  My  mother  said  it  was  "criminal" — that  was 
her  very  word — to  have  chemical  fumes  on  the  same  floor 
with  a  baby's  nursery.  The  rooms  actually  adjoined  one 
another,  making  it  much  worse.  The  laboratory,  if  it  was 
necessary  at  all  to  have  such  a  nonsensical  mess  in  a  house, 
would  have  to  be  in  the  unoccupied  room  above.  How 
Helen  could  in  any  event  tolerate  such  a  thing  was  beyond 
my  mother's  power  to  see.  I  was  liable  to  burn  the  house 
down  at  any  moment.  If  we  were  incapable  of  thinking  for 
ourselves,  we  might  at  least  occasionally  think  of  the  baby. 
The  whole  concluded  with  a  peroration  on  my  lack  of  any 


WE   BEGIN  TO   LIVE  261 

sense  of  responsibility.  That  had  always  been  the  curse  of 
the  Jevons  side  of  the  family.  We  humbly  expressed  our 
eagerness  to  put  the  laboratory  upstairs. 

"Why  the  devil  did  I  tell  her  about  that  blasted  laboratory?" 
I  whispered  to  Helen  as  we  went  down  into  the  garden. 
Outside  we  paused  before  the  spacious  kennel  inhabited  by  the 
genial  Sir  Leonidas  de  la  Patte  Jaune.  His  welcome  spread 
from  ear  to  ear. 

"This  spot  has  been  especially  earmarked  for  Leonidas,"  I 
said  to  my  mother,  with  a  wink  at  Helen. 

"Ted,  what  absurd  words  you  use  at  times!,"  my  mother 
said.  "I  can't  see  what  attraction  there  is  about  that  wretched 
animal.  It's  a  loathsome  yellow  cur.  If  you  are  going  to 
have  a  dog,  for  God's  sake  get  a  good  one." 

"He  matches  our  family  crest,  mother.  On  a  field  vert, 
a  hound  souriant,  or,  enkennele." 

"I'm  sure  I  have  no  idea  what  you  are  talking  about,  Ted. 
You  are  always  a  bore,  like  all  the  Jevonses,  when  you 
try  to  be  amusing.  The  crest  is  certainly  not  a  yellow 
dog." 

There  had  been  no  time,  as  yet,  to  do  anything  to  the 
garden.  We  stood,  therefore,  and  talked  of  possibilities 
rather  than  of  facts.  We  hoped  to  afford  a  tennis  court 
by  spring.  There  was  just  enough  length,  with  room  along 
the  sides  for  flowers  and  a  vegetable  patch  at  the  back.  By 
the  dining  room  window  we  were  meditating  a  pergola. 

"Amateur  flowers  never  grow,  or,  if  they  do,  they  never 
blossom,"  announced  my  mother. 

The  housemaid  rang  the  dinner  gong.  Helen  and  I  felt 
we  had  now  to  face  the  supreme  test.  Our  first  dinner  party! 
Helen  was  probably  nervous  as  we  sat  down,  and  I  rather 
wished  I  knew  more  about  carving.  My  dear  wife,  not 
thinking  of  me,  had  ordered  ducklings.  The  soup  passed  off 
very  well.  I  had  cheated  there  and  brought  some  out  from  a 
caterer's  in  town. 

"Helen  makes  rather  good  soup,"  I  remarked,  while  the 


262  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

lady  of  the  house  cast  me  an  imploring  look  from  the  other 
end  of  the  table. 

"It's  the  best  soup  I  ever  tasted,"  affirmed  my  father,  wish- 
ing to  be  tactful.     "Very  clever  of  you,  Helen." 

Helen  blushed  crimson,  but  sat  silent. 

"You  got  it  at  HicksonV  said  my  mother  calmly.  "We 
often  have  it  at  home,  although  no  one  notices  it." 

"Ted — "  Helen  began.     My  mother  cut  her  short. 

"You  need  not  apologize  for  Ted,  Helen.  I  knew  him 
before  you  did." 

"May  I  offer  an  apology  for  hitting  Helen  with  my 
boomerang?" 

"Do,"  my  mother  replied.  "It  is  exceedingly  unusual  for  a 
Jevons  to  be  aware  he  owes  one." 

The  ducklings  arrived  at  this  point,  and  I  arose  to  get  a 
firmer  grip  upon  them  than  was  possible  from  a  chair.  Deli- 
cately I  made  the  first  incision,  only  to  discover  that  duck- 
lings do  not  respond  to  delicate  treatment.  I  worked  in 
silence  for  a  time  upon  number  one.  Although  division  into 
his  integral  factors  accumulated  many  apparent  units,  there 
seemed  surprisingly  little  of  him  to  serve  when  thus  reduced 
to  his  lowest  terms.     Frances  giggled. 

"You  look  so  funny,  Ted,"  she  explained,  with  sisterly 
devotion. 

"For  that  you  shall  have  a  drum-stick,"  I  retorted. 

"I  can  see  nothing  funny  in  watching  good  food  being 
ruined,"  my  mother  said  encouragingly.  The  housemaid 
standing  at  my  elbow  with  a  plate  ready  made  me  nervous. 

"It  is  a  curious  fact,"  my  mother  went  on,  in  a  reminiscent 
mood,  "that  no  Jevons  could  ever  carve.  They  are  the  most 
incompetent  men  that  ever  existed." 

As  I  knew  for  a  certainty  that  the  only  two  Jevonses  on 
earth  my  mother  had  ever  seen  were  my  father  and  myself, 
I  wondered  whether  she  was  drawing  on  state  documents  or 
simply  making  a  sweeping  generalization  from  two  examples. 
Something  told  me,  however,  not  to  argue  this  point. 


WE  BEGIN  TO   LIVE  263 

"A  duckling,"  I  said,  "is  an  act  of  God.  Steamer  tickets 
and  insurance  policies  specially  provide  for  no  liability  for 
such.  Even  a  Jevons  is  powerless  in  the  face  of  the  handi- 
work of  Providence." 

"Sit  down,  Ted,  and  let  me  finish.  It  makes  me  ill  to  see 
you  messing  up  those  ducklings,"  my  mother  said.  Willingly 
I  changed  places.  To  my  secret  joy  she  splashed  some  gravy 
on  the  table  cloth.  I  tried  to  kick  Helen  under  the  table,  but 
all  I  did  was  to  make  an  awful  crash  against  one  of  the  com- 
plicated gate  legs.  My  mother  looked  fixedly  at  me.  I  did 
not  move  a  muscle  of  my  face. 

"Sorry,"  I  murmured.     "I  haven't  room  for  my  feet." 

The  fragments  of  the  two  ducklings  were  at  last  distributed 
to  my  mother's  satisfaction.  The  remainder  of  the  dinner 
was  eaten  without  caustic.  Indeed,  my  mother  commended 
the  Burgundy,  bought  for  her  particular  gratification. 

It  was,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  with  mixed  feelings  that 
Helen  and  I  sat  down  after  saying  good-bye  to  the  family 
that  evening.  The  day  had  been  trying  for  Helen,  for  it  was 
like  being  on  dress  parade  before  a  critic  whose  motives  were 
kindly,  but  who  was  perhaps  all  the  more  eager,  for  that  reason, 
to  find  mistakes.  Never  before  this  week  had  the  child  kept 
house  or  entertained  guests  of  her  own.  She  could  hardly 
be  blamed  for  uttering  a  sigh  of  relief  when  it  was  all  over. 
On  the  other  hand,  we  neither  of  us  knew  when  we  should  see 
any  of  the  family  again,  for  they  were  leaving  England  at  once. , 
Eager  as  we  had  been  to  be  our  own  masters,  we  felt  the 
isolation  that  was  now  to  be  ours  as  almost  too  literal  a 
response  to  our  prayers.  Our  circle  of  friends  in  town  was 
neither  large  nor  intimate;  we  had  yet  to  test  the  resources  of 
our  village.  Of  one  thing,  however,  time  had  made  us 
absolutely  certain.  That  certainty  was  concerning  the  stability 
of  our  love.  Each  week,  each  day  made  that  firmer  and 
more  intense.  We  lived  but  for  each  other;  we  thought  of 
nothing  else.  .  .  . 


264  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

"Well,  Ted,"  Helen  smiled  at  me,  "there  is  one  thing  we 
can  do  now." 

"What  is  that,  dear?" 

"Work.  We  have  the  leisure  we  have  dreamed  about.  Let's 
use  it.  You  shall  begin  writing  your  play  in  the  morning." 
We  went  to  bed  very  happy. 


Chapter    Sixteen 

WE     HEAR    SENTENCE     PRONOUNCED 

THREE  years  and  a  few  months  more  went  by,  not  un- 
eventfully for  us,  yet  without  any  striking  change  in 
the  happy  quiet  of  our  lives  in  the  little  Hertfordshire 
village.  We  had  acquired  a  few  friends,  some  from  London, 
others  from  among  our  neighbours.  Week-ends  were  certain 
to  find  our  guest  room  occupied,  if  we  were  not  ourselves 
away  on  a  visit  elsewhere.  There  was  tennis  of  a  Saturday 
afternoon,  golf,  or  a  walk  across  the  fields  by  the  paths  leading 
Aldenham  way.  Often  we  rode  horseback,  particularly  in 
the  autumn,  when  hounds  were  out.  We  were  not,  however, 
hunting  people,  for  we  could  not  afford  a  pair  of  good 
hunters;  we  contented  ourselves  with  riding  to  the  meets  on 
our  hired  beasts,  with  a  canter  through  a  lane  afterwards. 

When  there  was  something  new  on  at  the  theatre,  we  dined 
in  town,  coming  home  after  the  performance  by  the  late  train. 
Our  gradually  increasing  circle  of  friends  connected  with 
the  theatres  made  it  possible  for  us  to  obtain  seats  for  first 
nights — not  always,  of  course,  but  for  many  important  open- 
ings. We  came  to  know,  by  sight,  at  least,  the  perpetual 
first  night  audience  of  London,  its  critics,  dramatists,  and 
friendly  connections.  We  enjoyed  thoroughly  whispering  and 
nudging  one  another:  "There's  So-and-So,"  or  "look  at  that 
dress  Mrs.  What's-her-Name  is  wearing."  It  was  our  way 
of  joining  in  the  outburst  of  applause  with  which  it  was  the 
custom  of  the  pit  to  greet  the  entry  of  each  celebrity.  But 
our  theatrical  friends  were  not  in  this  group  of  big-wigs. 
We  knew  the  younger  generation — players  of  small  parts, 
recent  graduates  from  the  Benson  company,  dramatists  who  had 

265 


266  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

not  yet  had  a  West  End  production,  idealistic  members  of 
the  Stage  Society — in  fact,  mostly  the  youngsters  who  believed 
themselves  "advanced."  Perhaps  they  were;  I  don't  know. 
We  were  keen  on  Ibsen  and  smiled  pityingly  at  the  mention 
of  Pinero.  We  were  Fabians  because  of  Mr.  Shaw.  Some- 
times we — Helen  and  I — dabbled  a  bit  in  writing  dramatic 
criticism.  Wa  began  to  get  some  articles  accepted.  But 
our  greatest  fun  upon  returning  from  a  first  night  was  to 
sit  down  and  write  parodies  of  the  notice  we  expected  to  read 
in  the  morning  in  The  Daily  Telegraph.  We  became  quite 
skilled  at  this  latter  art. 

During  these  three  years  we  saw  my  mother  and  sister 
but  once  or  twice,  when  they  came  back  to  London  for  short 
visits.  My  sister  was  being  taken  to  live  now  in  Paris,  now 
in  Rome,  and  finally  in  Munich,  to  follow  out  a  theory  of 
education  invented  by  the  family.  My  father  we  saw  more 
often,  for  he  came  back  on  periodical  visits  to  look  after  his 
business.  He  preferred,  however,  his  club  in  town  to  our 
more  inaccessible  village.  If  we  wished  to  see  much  of  him, 
we  had  to  go  up  to  London. 

The  baby  had  grown  to  be  a  constant  source  of  surprise  and 
delight  to  us.  Her  conversation  was  fluent,  her  interest  in 
the  garden  intense.  In  violation  of  all  the  proprieties,  she 
sat  in  a  high  chair  at  table  with  us  for  breakfast  and  luncheon. 
Leonidas  also  had  his  special  chair  in  one  corner  of  the 
dining  room,  which  he  mounted  at  the  sounding  of  the  gong 
and  remained  in  until  his  own  plate  was  carried  out  to  his 
kennel.  The  baby  and  Leonidas  were  most  astonishingly  good 
pals.  He  would  tolerate  liberties  at  her  hands  that  no  one  else 
dared  venture  upon.  The  worst  ordeal  of  the  day  for  Leonidas 
was  to  take  tea  with  the  dolls.  With  a  napkin  tied  under  his 
chin,  he  was  compelled  to  occupy  a  place  at  the  dolls'  tea- 
table  and  sit  there  immovable  until  the  ceremony  was  over. 
No  Christian  martyr  ever  had  a  more  expressive  countenance; 
yet  he,  like  the  martyrs,  did  not  question  the  necessity  for  his 
sufferings.    The  lump  of  sugar  which  signalized  the  close  of 


WE   HEAR   SENTENCE  267 

each  day's  tea-party  would  send  Leonidas  galloping  in  frenzied 
circles  about  the  garden  in  joy  over  his  regained  freedom. 

Our  income  was  increasing,  not  to  make  us  rich,  but  to 
keep  pace  with  the  things  we  enjoyed  doing.  In  the  first  place, 
there  were  the  modest  profits  of  our  share  in  the  Willesden 
factory — a  sum  which  about  covered  ordinary  living  expenses, 
clothes,  and  theatre  tickets.  Then  there  was  Helen's  allow- 
ance, which  we  used  for  horseback  riding,  week-end  trips,  old 
books,  and  little  luxuries.  From  time  to  time  we  sold  a 
manuscript — money  which  it  particularly  delighted  us  to  earn. 
The  great  play  had  not  yet  been  written;  yet  we  were  still 
hopeful  that  the  future  would  bring  us  that.  Several  drawers 
of  manuscript  plays  were  beginning  to  accumulate.  Last  of 
all,  a  sheer  piece  of  financial  luck  befell  us. 

A  friend  who  was  a  solicitor  in  the  City,  had  a  client  in- 
terested in  chemical  patents.  I  was  casually  asked  one  day 
to  write  a  report  on  one  of  these  patents.  Helen  and  I  worked 
out  a  document  one  evening,  after  messing  about  for  a  few 
days  in  the  laboratory  upstairs,  sent  it  to  the  solicitors,  and 
thought  no  more  about  it.  To  our  surprise  we  received  a 
check  for  fifty  guineas  a  few  days  later,  together  with  a  request 
for  reports  on  other  patents.  We  embarked  cautiously  on  the 
career  of  consultant,  for,  although  the  fees  were  tempting, 
we  both  feared  being  taken  again  from  our  writing  and 
reading.  We  set  a  limit  to  the  time  to  be  given  to  this  new 
work,  not  thinking  it  right  wholly  to  refuse  such  a  gift  at 
fortune's  hands.  These  occasional  fees  put  us  beyond  any 
fear  of  financial  worry.  Helen  refused,  on  the  other  hand, 
to  let  me  open  an  office  in  the  City.  As  long  as  the  clients 
were  willing  to  submit  work  to  me  at  home,  well  and  good. 
My  mornings,  she  insisted,  should  be  kept  free  for  writing. 
Thus  our  days  were  very  full  and  very  happy. 

We  made  a  few  trips  to  the  Continent  on  our  own  account. 
The  consulting  fees  made  these  easily  possible.  We  went  to 
Paris  and  Rouen,  to  the  French  Channel  watering  places, 
through  Normandy,  Holland,  and  Belgium — all  at  different 


263  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

times.  We  were  never  away  longer  than  ten  days,  on  account 
of  the  baby,  and  often  not  more  than  the  week-end.  In  the 
same  way  I  took  Helen  to  see  more  of  England,  until,  like 
me,  she  soon  came  to  look  upon  England  as  home.  Memories 
of  Deep  Harbor,  in  spite  of  weekly  letters  from  her  father 
and  mother,  were  growing  dim.  There  was  no  question  of 
home-sickness;  instead,  I  could  see  the  love  of  England  in 
her  eyes  as  we  rode  between  the  Hertfordshire  hedgerows  or 
chatted  with  our  friends  at  tea  time  in  the  garden. 

There  was  but  one  thing  that  troubled  me;  in  spite  of  our 
outdoor  life  and  quiet  habits,  the  climate  did  not  always  agree 
with  Helen.  In  the  winter  she  had  too  many  heavy  colds; 
in  the  spring  her  cough  lingered  longer  than  I  liked.  It  was 
in  June,  when  we  were  entering  upon  our  fourth  year  in  the 
village,  that  I  asked  a  doctor  in  town  to  come  out  and  have  a 
special  look  at  her.  She  had  been  a  little  languid,  a  most 
unusual  thing  for  her,  and  the  cough  still  hung  on.  The 
local  practitioner,  an  amiable  man  harassed  with  overwork, 
had  made  light  of  it. 

"Your  soil  is  a  bit  clayey,"  he  had  said.  "It  would  be  better 
if  you  were  on  gravel,  but  it's  nothing.  Keep  on  with  your 
riding;  it  will  soon  pass  away." 

It  hadn't.  That  is  why  I  sent  for  the  London  man.  I 
waited  downstairs  for  his  verdict.  He  came  in  smiling,  after 
half  an  hour,  and  I  could  feel  my  heart  leap  at  the  sight  of 
his  cheerful  face. 

"I  don't  think  it's  anything,"  he  said.  "Come,  we  won't 
believe  it  is,"  he  added,  and  a  strange  icy  chill  went  through 
me,  leaving  me  speechless  and  physically  helpless.  I  had 
just  strength  to  grasp  a  chair.  "I  shouldn't  say  anything  to 
her  about  it,"  he  added — "at  least,  not  for  the  present.  I've 
taken  a  sample  of  her  sputum  and  will  have  it  analyzed,  just 
to  make  certain.     Still,  I  can't  believe  it." 

"Believe  what?"  I  gasped,  my  voice  breaking  in  spite 
of  my  efforts  at  self-control. 

"Now  don't  you  worry,  old  man.     We've  caught  it  early, 


WE  HEAR   SENTENCE  269 

if  it  is  anything — that's  the  main  thing.  There  is  a  dull  spot 
on  one  of  the  lungs  that  will  bear  a  bit  of  watching." 

I  think  it  was  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  have  ever  felt 
sheer,  absolute  terror.  My  thoughts  were  raging  like  a  mad- 
man's.    I  could  not  speak  a  word,  try  as  I  would. 

"Buck  up,  old  chap,"  he  said,  looking  curiously  at  me. 
*Take  a  drop  of  brandy.  You  mustn't  let  Mrs.  Ted  see  you 
like  that."  We  were  old  friends,  this  doctor  and  I,  for  he 
had  been  the  family  specialist  in  town  for  years.  "The  main 
thing  is  not  to  worry  or  let  her  worry.  Mind,  not  a  word 
to  her  until  I  tell  you." 

Helen  came  in  at  this  point,  looking  her  own  sweet  self, 
with  a  smile  upon  her  face.  She  had  never  looked  so  beauti- 
ful to  me  in  her  life. 

"Ted,  the  doctor  says  you  are  a  silly  old  goose  to  worry 
about  me.  I'm  quite  all  right.  He's  prescribed  a  tonic.  In  a 
few  days  I'll  be  as  well  as  ever.  Would  you  like  a  cup  of 
tea,  doctor,  before  you  go?  Do  stay.  We  can  give  you  dinner 
later  if  you  will." 

"Thanks  very  much,  I  must  be  off.  Other  patients  to  see  in 
town,  you  know.     You  are  very  kind." 

I  detected  in  the  doctor's  manner  a  desire  to  get  away 
quickly,  which  I  did  not  believe  was  wholly  dictated  by  pro- 
fessional motives.  "That  man  believes  more  than  he  has 
told  me,"  I  thought,  "and  he  is  not  easy  about  this  case." 
The  baby  toddled  in  to  see  the  guest. 

"Hasn't  she  grown  wonderfully  since  you  saw  her,  doctor?" 
said  Helen,  picking  the  baby  up  in  her  arms. 

"Er — yes,"  said  the  doctor.  "Er — I  shouldn't  lift  any 
heavy  weights,  if  I  were  you — not  just  for  the  present,  you 
know." 

Helen  put  the  child  down,  with  the  slightest  shadow  in 
her  eyes.  Something  impelled  me,  at  this,  to  rush  to  Helen's 
side  and  put  my  arm  about  her.  We  stood  facing  the  doctor, 
almost  defiantly. 

"I  think  I'll  have  a  try  for  the  4.50 — by  the  way,  I  suppose 


270  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

you'll  be  in  town,  both  of  you,  for  the  horseshow  at  Olympia 
next  week?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Helen ;  "we  never  miss  that." 

"Look  in  at  my  office  as  you  pass  by.  Don't  fail.  Good- 
bye," and  he  was  off. 

Helen  took  the  baby  to  the  nurse  and  came  back  to  me. 
She  put  her  hands  on  my  shoulders,  and  said:  "Now,  Ted, 
tell  me  what  the  doctor  told  you.     No  fibs,  please,  sweetheart." 

I  looked  at  her  grey  eyes  and  had  to  fight  to  keep  the 
tears  out  of  my  own. 

"We  neither  of  us  know  for  certain  yet,  my  wife  dear. 
He's  having  your  sputum  analyzed." 

"Can  you  analyze  it,  Ted?" 

"No,  dear.  I  know  nothing  of  physiological  chemistry — 
and  I  haven't  a  proper  microscope  for  that  work." 

"Ted,"  she  said,  sitting  down  in  her  favourite  chair,  "I'm 
not  going  to  give  in,  whatever  happens."  She  shut  her  lips 
with  something  of  the  decision  I  had  often  noted  in  her  father's 
face. 

"Dearest,  we  must  not  make  mountains  out  of  molehills. 
Wait  until  we  know." 

"No,  Ted,  we  must  think.  There's  the  baby  to  consider — 
as  well  as  ourselves." 

I  sat  down  beside  her  and  held  her  tight.  She  was  quite 
dry-eyed. 

"Ted,  if  anything  should  happen — I  said,  sweetheart,  if 
anything  should  happen,  I  want  you  to  make  me  a  promise." 

"Yes,"  I  said. 

"Promise  me  that  you  will  always  take  care  of  the  baby. 
Don't  let  any  one  else  take  her  away.  She  is  to  stay  with 
you — and  it  is  you,  and  only  you,  who  can  make  her  happy." 

"I  promise,"  I  whispered,  burying  my  head  in  her  lap. 

"And  now,  Ted  dearest,  we  are  to  go  on  just  as  before  until 
we  see  the  doctor  next  week.  I'm  going  up  to  dress  for 
dinner.  Will  you  telephone  for  the  horses  to  be  brought 
round  in  the  morning?     Not  before  ten." 


WE  HEAR   SENTENCE  271 

"Very  well,  dear." 

She  waved  her  hand  gaily  at  me  from  the  door,  sending 
me  a  smile  and  blowing  a  kiss  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 

A  week  later  we  reported  at  the  doctor's  sanctum.  He 
greeted  us  cordially,  and  I  could  not  decide  from  his  manner 
what  answer  he  had  for  us.  Carefully  and  methodically  he 
sounded  Helen.  It  made  me  shiver  to  see  the  quiet  remorse- 
less way  his  stethoscope  travelled  over  her  beautiful  bare 
shoulders  and  breast.  I  cursed  my  ignorance  that  told  me 
nothing  of  what  result  he  was  reaching. 

"There,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  don't  think  we  need  to  be 
alarmed.  Put  on  your  dress,  little  girl,  and  wait  downstairs 
for  your  husband,  will  you?  I  want  just  a  word  with  him 
about  what  he  is  to  do  for  you." 

Helen  obediently  dressed  and  went.  The  doctor  followed 
her  to  the  door,  saw  her  downstairs,  and  returned  to  me.  I 
sat  frozen  in  my  chair. 

"Ted,"  he  said,  examining  some  instrument  on  his  desk, 
"there  were  tubercular  bacilli  in  her  sputum." 

I  continued  to  sit  in  silence.  The  room  was  growing  hazy, 
and  I  could  not  struggle  to  any  words. 

"We've  got  the  case  in  an  early  stage — so  early,  in  fact, 
that  I  don't  even  yet  say  the  diagnosis  is  final.  With  open- 
air  treatment,  she  should  be  well  again  in  a  year.  But  you'll 
have  to  be  careful  with  her.  You  must  leave  England  in 
September." 

"Leave  England,"  I  said  mechanically,  my  tongue  sticking 
to  my  throat,  making  it  difficult  to  speak.  "Where  are  we 
to  go?" 

"Up  the  Nile — Assuam  is  a  good  place — or  out  to  the 
desert;  say  your  own  Southern  California." 

"Egypt  or  California?"  I  echoed,  like  a  ventriloquist's  puppet. 

"Meanwhile,  live  in  the  open  all  you  can — but  no  violent 
exercise.  Don't  let  her  ride  or  play  tennis.  A  little  gentle 
walking;  nothing  more." 


272  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

I  got  to  my  feet.  "Doctor,  I  want  to  know  the  truth. 
What  chance  have  we?" 

"Why,  the  best  of  chances.  The  will  to  win,  that  will  do 
it,  Ted.  Keep  your  nerve  and  don't  let  her  be  frightened. 
Cures  are  often  made,  at  this  stage."  He  added:  "I'm  go- 
ing to  have  more  analyses  made.  It's  still  possible  we  are 
wrong." 

"Are  you  certain  we  can  fight  it  off?" 

"Absolutely  certain,  if  you  follow  instructions.  Will  that 
satisfy  you?" 

"I  don't  want  to  be  satisfied.     I  want  the  truth." 

The  doctor  walked  up  and  down  the  room  for  a  moment  or 
two. 

"Ted,"  he  said  slowly,  turning  to  me,  "I'm  a  doctor,  not 
a  prophet.  Cures  are  possible  with  modern  treatment.  I 
can't  say  more.  She  is  young,  has  lived  a  good,  clean  life, 
and  has  a  good  physique.  Everything  possible  is  in  her  favour. 
Don't  leave  her  too  long  downstairs,  or  she  may  worry." 

I  groped  toward  the  door,  the  doctor  close  at  my  elbow. 

"Remember,  Ted,  that  cheerfulness  is  our  most  important 
ally.  Whatever  you  feel,  don't  let  her  see  you  anything  but 
cheerful.     By  the  way — "  he  paused. 

"What?"  I  asked. 

"She  ought  not  to  kiss  her  baby  or  be  too  close  to  it." 

He  studied  the  monogram  on  his  cigarette  case,  then  offered 
me  a  cigarette.  I  pushed  it  away.  I  could  see  Helen's  face 
in  my  imagination,  when  I  should  tell  her  she  could  not  kiss 
her  own  baby. 

"You  know,"  the  doctor  went  on  jerkily,  "you  ought  to  be 
careful  yourself.  Keep  away  as  much  as  you  can — at  least, 
separate  bedrooms." 

I  looked  at  him.     He  shrugged. 

"It's  my  duty  to  warn  you — that's  all,"  he  said,  holding  out 
his  hand.  "And  keep  her  out  of  crowds — no  horseshow — no 
theatres." 

I  think  I  said  good-bye;   perhaps  I  thanked  him  for  his 


WE   HEAR   SENTENCE  273 

kindness,  but  I  have  no  recollection  of  anything  further 
until  Helen  and  I  stood  outside  his  house,  with  the  June  sun- 
shine pouring  down  on  us.  I  tried  to  smile  at  her  as  I  saw 
her  grey  eyes  fixed  on  mine.     It  was  rather  a  ghastly  attempt. 

"I  want  to  know  everything,  Ted.  Don't  keep  anything 
back." 

I  told  her  as  gently  as  I  could,  while  we  continued  to 
walk  along  Harley  Street  without  noticing  where  we  were 
going. 

"Ted,  I'm  going  to  fight — and  fight  hard.  I  won't  be 
beaten!     I  won't!" 

For  just  a  second  I  thought  she  was  going  to  break  down. 
I  should  have  known  my  Helen  better. 

"We  must  go  home  and  make  plans,  dear.     Call  a  hansom." 

I  looked  about.  We  were  just  emerging  in  the  Marylebone 
Road,  or  was  it  Euston  Road?  Things  danced  a  bit  before 
my  eyes,  but  I  waved  my  stick.     A  hansom  drew  up  beside  us. 

"Euston,"  I  said,  helping  Helen  in. 

At  home  I  propped  Helen  up  in  a  Madeira  chair  in  the 
garden  while  we  were  waiting  for  tea.  I  went  into  the  house 
to  get  our  bank  passbook,  for  there  was  need  to  find  out  where 
we  stood  financially.  I  paused  as  I  saw  Helen  with  wistful 
eyes  watching  her  baby  playing  about  the  garden.  The 
flowers  made  bright  patches  of  color;  overhead  the  sun  and 
sky  were  glorious  with  an  English  June.  The  world  seemed 
such  a  beautiful  place — there  sat  a  beautiful  mother  watching 
her  baby  at  play— "Why?  why?"  I  asked,  "why  to  us?"  No 
answer  came,  then  or  since.     I  went  into  the  house. 

Our  finances  proved  to  be  in  fair  shape.  We  had  enough 
laid  by  to  take  us  overseas  if  we  were1  not  extravagant 
travellers.  The  income  from  the  factory  and  Helen's  allow- 
ance would  keep  us  comfortable,  even  granting  considerable 
addition  to  our  living  expenses.  In  any  event,  there  were 
two  generous  families  to  lend  help.  It  is  curious,  perhaps, 
that  at  first  we  talked  only  of  practical  problems.     The  reason 


274  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

was  that  we  were  both  so  determined  to  fight,  we  thought  of 
nothing  except  immediately  planning  our  campaign.  We 
would  let  the  house  furnished.  It  was  the  most  sensible  thing 
to  do,  although  the  first  tears  came  to  Helen's  eyes  when  she 
spoke  of  strangers  using  our  treasures. 

After  tea  we  wrote  letters  to  both  families.  There  re- 
mained the  question  of  where  to  go  in  September.  Again  we 
took  an  immediate  decision,  or  rather  Helen  did.  She  felt 
uncertain  about  carrying  the  baby  to  Egypt.  Neither  of  us 
had  been  there,  and  we  did  not  know  what  Assuam  might  be 
like.  As  for  California,  while  it  was  equally  a  strange  country 
to  us,  it  was  at  least  America,  and  we  should  be,  in  a  measure, 
at  home.  We  put  postscripts  to  our  letters,  announcing 
southern  California  as  our  destination  in  September.  We 
dined  in  the  garden  and  sat  late  under  the  stars,  her  hand 
in  mine. 

Although  we  spent  the  whole  summer  in  the  garden,  or 
taking  short  walks  along  the  field-paths  near  by,  Helen  began 
to  lose  strength.  She  seemed  quite  unaware  of  it  herself,  for 
each  day  her  word  to  me  was  that  she  felt  much  better.  And, 
mindful  of  the  doctor's  constant  injunctions  to  me  to  be 
always  cheerful  in  her  presence,  I  had  to  pretend  that  I,  too, 
thought  her  steadily  improving.  The  doctor  began  to  speak 
of  the  benefit  a  change  of  climate  would  bring,  by  which  I 
saw  that  he  inwardly  admitted  there  had  been  no  amendment. 
But  he  buoyed  us  up  with  hope  and  optimism,  telling  us 
marvellous  tales  of  cures  that  the  American  desert  had  wrought. 
Almost  our  whole  anguish  was  at  the  thought  of  leaving  our 
little  home;  as  yet  neither  of  us  had  had  our  confidence  at  all 
shaken.  On  the  contrary,  so  optimistic  is  youth,  we  had  in  con- 
siderable degree  recovered  from  our  first  grief.  We  knew  we 
were  fighting,  perhaps  with  our  backs  to  the  wall,  but  we  did 
not  doubt  we  should  win.  It  was  when  I  was  alone  that  doubt 
would  sometimes  steal  in.  For  example,  that  walk  Helen  took 
easily  last  week,  she  could  not  finish  yesterday — what  did  it 


WE   HEAR   SENTENCE  275 

mean?  But  I  fought  against  doubt  for  her  sake,  well  knowing 
that  she  would  instantly  detect  any  signs  of  it  in  me.  I  strove 
not  to  think  at  all,  but  to  minister  each  day  to  Helen's  comfort 
and  happiness,  leaving  tomorrow  out  of  the  account. 

Packing  up  and  closing  the  house  was  the  hardest  for  Helen 
to  bear.  In  spite  of  the  fatigue  of  climbing  stairs,  she  went 
with  me  from  room  to  room  for  one  last  look.  We  were  saying 
good-bye  to  home  alone  because  our  letters  to  my  family  had 
been  so  optimistic  they  fancied  we  were  merely  going  away  for 
the  winter.  They  wrote  that  they  would  come  to  visit  us  in  the 
spring  upon  our  return.  My  father  had  sent  a  check,  and  Mr. 
Claybourne  had  cabled  he  would  meet  us  in  New  York.  So  it 
came  that  we  left  our  house  as  we  had  entered  it,  alone. 

At  the  station  many  kind  friends  came  down  to  see  us  off, 
loading  Helen  with  flowers.  The  baby  was  in  great  form,  for 
the  excitement  of  travel  was  new  to  her.  I  think  it  was  the 
worst  wrench  of  all  for  Helen  to  leave  Leonidas,  although  dog- 
loving  friends  were  keeping  him  for  us.  Poor  Leonidas!  the 
last  thing  we  saw  from  the  train  window  was  the  diminishing 
wags  of  his  tail,  as  he  stood  wondering  on  the  platform.  For 
the  first  time  since  the  doctor's  diagnosis,  Helen  cried,  leaning 
against  my  shoulder  as  our  train  rushed  toward  Liverpool. 
But  she  soon  stopped,  for  little  Helen  started  crying  too  when 
she  saw  "mummy  dear"  in  tears.  Nurse  sat  up,  rather  grim, 
trying  to  keep  the  child  amused.  I  wondered  how  much  nurse 
guessed  or  knew. 

"It  doesn't  seem  possible,  Ted,  that  our  happy  life  is  over," 
Helen  whispered,  looking  out  of  the  carriage  window.  "The 
home  we  had  fixed  up  for  ourselves  and  were  going  to  live  in 
always — why  should  it  happen  to  us,  Ted?     Why?" 

It  was  the  same  question  I  had  asked  myself  in  the  garden. 

"We'll  come  back  in  June,"  I  said.  God  knows  whether  I 
thought  it  a  lie  or  not. 

"In  June,  Ted.  We  must.  It's — it's  hard  to  be — brave,  Ted, 
isn't  it?     But  I  won't  give  in!     I  won't!" 


276  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

We  reached  New  York  after  a  gloomy,  foggy  September  pas- 
sage. Mr.  Claybourne  met  us  at  the  dock,  accompanied  by  a 
Miss  Brock,  a  trained  nurse,  who  was  to  travel  with  us  to 
California.  We  paused  in  New  York  only  long  enough  to  con- 
sult another  tuberculosis  specialist.  This  man  also  expressed 
hope,  sending  us  on  our  way  rejoicing.  Another  halt  of  twenty- 
four  hours  was  made  at  Deep  Harbor,  to  see  Helen's  mother. 

It  was  a  strange  sensation  to  step  off  the  limited  at  the 
familiar  old  station  which  we  had  left  under  such  different  cir- 
cumstances. Before  us  lay  State  Street,  with  its  trolley  cars 
and  soft  coal  smoke,  not  much  altered.  Yet  the  mere  sight  of 
Deep  Harbor  lowered  my  spirits  as  nothing  else  had  done.  I 
don't  know  why  this  was  so.  In  spite  of  all  I  could  do,  deep 
depression  seized  me  as  we  drove  to  the  Claybourne  residence 
on  Myrtle  Boulevard.  I  think  Helen  felt  it,  too,  for  her  hand 
rested  on  mine  the  whole  way.  Mr.  Claybourne  was  busy  with 
his  new  granddaughter,  whom  he  had  deliberately  spoiled  from 
the  time  he  first  saw  her  on  the  dock  at  New  York.  She  was 
chattering  away  to  him,  as  we  drove  along,  in  a  pronounced 
English  nurse-girl  accent,  a  habit  that  gave  Mr.  Claybourne  un- 
ending delight.  I  think  the  trace  of  English  in  Helen  troubled 
him  a  little.  After  over  four  years  it  was  not  surprising  that 
Helen  had  acquired  a  few  English  mannerisms  and  tricks  of 
speech.  Her  slang,  indeed,  was  quite  up  to  date.  I  had  seen 
him  look  at  his  daughter  more  than  once  as  if  he  felt  that  she 
had  drifted  far  away  during  the  four  years  and  over  of  her 
married  life.  I  wonder  myself  how  it  would  seem  if  Helen 
had  been  away  a  long  time  from  me  and  returned  with  strange 
speech  and  ways.  I  wanted  to  tell  him  she  was  a  more  splen- 
did and  wonderful  woman  than  she  had  ever  been. 

I  dreaded  the  meeting  with  Mrs.  Claybourne.  I  feared  her 
tears  and  wailings  would  have  a  depressing  effect  on  Helen. 
Mrs.  Claybourne  was  constitutionally  unable  to  look  upon  any 
but  the  gloomiest  side  of  things.  What  would  happen  now  she 
had  good  cause  for  sorrow?  I  had  already  warned  Mr.  Clay- 
bourne that  only  cheerfulness  was  to  be  about  Helen,  hoping  he 


WE   HEAR   SENTENCE  277 

would  shield  her  from  Mrs.  Claybourne's  worst.  As  I  expected, 
we  were  met  with  tears,  to  which,  however,  Mr.  Claybourne  put 
a  sudden  and  decided  stop.  It  was  possible  to  bully  Mrs.  Clay- 
bourne,  I  observed  with  satisfaction. 

After  luncheon  Miss  Brock  took  Helen  upstairs  for  a  rest. 
Mr.  Claybourne  and  I  faced  one  another,  each  equipped  with 
one  of  the  oily  black  cigars  I  remembered  so  well. 

"Ted,  I  haven't  tried  to  ask  many  questions  with  Helen 
around.     What  are  our  chances  in  this  thing?" 

"God !     I  wish  I  knew,"  I  answered. 

He  smoked  his  cigar  a  while,  staring  out  the  window  at  the 
passersby  on  Myrtle  Boulevard,  much  as  he  had  done  the  first 
time  I  told  him  I  loved  his  daughter. 

"I  don't  need  to  ask  if  you  and  Helen  have  been  happy,"  he 
went  on,  still  gazing  at  the  street.  "I  saw  that  in  her  eyes 
when  you  brought  her  off  the  boat." 

"No  two  people  could  have  been — happier,"  I  murmured, 
my  voice  losing  a  little  of  its  steadiness  in  spite  of  me. 

"I  know,  Ted.  Yes,  I  think  I  know — you  see,  she's  all  I 
have,  too." 

I  could  not  reply;  he  was  looking  fixedly  out  the  window. 

"I  can't  come  with  you,  Ted ;  my  business  ties  me  here.  And 
I  won't  let  Mrs.  Claybourne  go  with  you — I  guess  you  know 
why.  Don't  spare  expense — no  matter  what  it  is.  Get  the 
best  specialist  and  the  best  of  everything  for  her.  If  you  run 
short,  simply  call  on  me."  He  fumbled  in  a  pocket  book. 
"Here  is  a  draft  on  a  Los  Angeles  Bank.  Deposit  it  as  a 
reserve  fund." 

I  was  surprised  to  see  that  his  eyes,  like  mine,  were  wet 
when  he  handed  me  the  draft.  Then  he  smiled :  "We  mustn't 
lose  our  nerve,  Ted.  Go  out  there  and  fight  for  that  girl,"  and 
he  gripped  my  hand. 

The  next  day  we  began  our  long  journey  across  the  Conti- 
nent. We  had  several  hours  to  wait  in  Chicago  before  the 
Santa  Fe  limited  left  in  the  evening.     We  hired  an  open  cab 


278  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

and  drove  for  an  hour  along  the  lake  front  of  that  amazing 
city.  Helen  took  her  old,  eager  childish  delight  in  seeing 
something  new.  Her  eyes  danced  as  I  had  not  seen  them 
dance  for  weeks.  We  astonishd  passersby  by  halting  our  cab 
to  stare  upward  at  sky-scrapers  or  to  peer  from  alongside  the 
curb  at  luxurious  shop  windows. 

"They  wonder  what  curious  brand  of  country  folks  we 
are,"  I  laughed  with  her. 

"Ted!"  Helen  exclaimed,  clutching  my  arm,  "there's  one  of 
those  wonderful  American  candy  shops — do  buy  me  some 
chocolates." 

Again  I  laughed  at  the  blend  of  the  two  countries  in  her  re- 
mark. The  cab  was  stopped  once  more  and  a  box  of 
chocolates  added  to  our  luggage.  In  our  delight  over 
sight-seeing  together,  we  forgot  for  a  time  the  shadow  hanging 
over  us.  It  was  Miss  Brock  who  brought  us  to  ourselves. 
Helen  was  getting  dangerously  excited.  The  cabman  drove  us 
to  our  hotel.  There  we  sat  in  a  room  looking  out  over  the 
lake  until  time  to  go  to  our  train. 

Driving  to  the  station,  Helen  said :  "Let's  stop  for  a  day  or 
two  in  Chicago  on  our  way  back  next  June,  Ted.  I  think  it's 
fun," 

On  the  train  Helen  and  I  had  a  little  compartment  to  our- 
selves, with  another  for  baby,  nurse,  and  Miss  Brock,  the 
trained  nurse.  Helen  insisted  at  once  on  playing  house  and 
having  the  baby  come  as  a  caller  to  visit  us. 

"Ted — just  think!  We  are  going  across  the  Continent. 
It's  a  real  adventure,  dear." 

"To  be'  anywhere  with  you  is  a  beautiful  adventure,"  I 
whispered.     It  sounded  banal,  but  I  meant  it. 

"Dear  old  boy,  you  still  pay  me  compliments  after  being 
married  to  me  for  ages.  And  I  like  them  just  as  much  as 
ever,  Ted."  She  snuggled  against  me,  saying,  "Make  me 
comfy,  Ted." 

In  spite  of  Helen's  j  oy  in  travel,  I  found  my  courage  oozing 
out  of  me  on  that  train.  The  tracks  stretched  so  remorselessly 
and  interminably  away  from  the  rear  carriage,  while  we  went 


WE   HEAR   SENTENCE  279 

on  and  on.  Our  old  life  and  happiness  seemed  to  be  fading 
far  off  over  many  horizons.  Ahead  of  us  there  was  nothing 
but  a  strange  land  and  an  unknown,  perilous  struggle.  I  won- 
dered at  the  towns  we  passed  through,  and  if,  in  each  village 
we  went  by,  there  were  others  fighting  the  same  fears  and 
watching  beside  their  beloveds. 

Mother  and  baby  often  sat  on  opposite  seats,  chattering  to 
each  other  of  the  things  seen  out  the  window — gee-gees,  moo- 
cows,  and  all  the  rest  that  all  mothers  show  their  babies. 
Little  Helen  no  longer  could  sit  in  her  mother's  lap. 

"Daddy,"  she  asked  one  day,  "why  can't  I  sit  in  mummy 
dear's  lap  any  more  the  way  I  did  in  England?" — everything 
now  she  compared  with  England — "and,  daddy,  why  doesn't 
mummy  dear  kiss  me  good-night  any  more?" 

I  held  little  Helen  very  tight  at  this,  for  a  pair  of  grey  eyes 
opposite  were  staring  out  the  Pullman  window. 

"Ted,"  said  the  grey  eyes  slowly,  "tell  her  the  truth." 

"'Mummy  dear  is  ill,  little  girl — and  the  doctor  says  you 
mustn't  sit  in  her  lap  or  kiss  her  until  she  is  quite  well  again." 

"I  want  mummy  dear  to  get  well  quickly,  daddy.  Tell  the 
doctor  to  make  her  well.  I  want  mummy  dear  to  kiss  me 
again." 

"Ted,  I'm  afraid  I'll  have — to  ask  you — to — to  take  baby 
back — to  nurse,"  the  grey  eyes  tried  to  smile.  "I  can't  stand — 
everything,  dear." 

Helen  woke  me  up  the  second  or  third  morning — I  can't 
remember  which — calling,  "Ted,  do  look  at  this  wonderful 
country — we  are  in  New  Mexico,  dear.     Look  at  it!" 

I  shook  myself  awake  and  climbed  out  of  my  berth.  Helen 
was  sitting  in  her  dressing  gown  by  the  window.  I  noticed 
that  the  skin  on  her  throat  looked  white  and  waxy.  But  I 
came  quickly  beside  her. 

"It  is  like  another  world  out  there." 

Sagebrush  had  begun;  in  the  distance  were  strange,  eerie- 
looking  mountains.     Shadows  were  sharp  and  hard,  with  edges 


280  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  trimmed  with  a  jackknife. 

"It  is  another  planet,"  I  said,  as  we  looked  at  this  weird 
panorama  unfolding  before  us.  "'It  couldn't  have  been  the 
same  God  that  made  this." 

The  train  stopped  with  a  jerk  at  some  collection  of  little 
wooden  houses  whose  gable  roofs  were  squared  off  by  false 
fronts. 

"It's  like  the  Western  novels,  Ted.  Oh,  look — there's  a  real 
cowboy — by  Jove,  Ted,  he  can  ride!" 

A  man  in  leather  chaps  rode  up  to  the  little  station  and  dis- 
mounted with  a  flourish,  I  suspect  for  the  benefit  of  the  train. 
There  was,  however,  no  doubt  that  he  and  a  horse  were  old 
acquaintances.     Helen  made  me  open  the  window. 

"May  I  give  your  horse  a  lump  of  sugar?"  she  called  to  the 
man.     He  looked  up  surprised,  then  grinned. 

"Sure,  lady,  if  I  can  coax  him  alongside  of  the  train." 

About  this  the  horse  was  of  another  opinion.  He  reared 
magnificently  and  struck  out  with  his  forefeet. 

"I  want  to  ride  that  horse,  Ted." 

We  compromised  by  handing  the  man  the  lump  of  sugar  to 
be  transferred  to  the  horse.  The  horse  sniffed  it  disdainfully 
and  spat  it  out. 

"I  guess  he  ain't  used  to  no  dainties,  lady,"  the  man 
apologized. 

The  train  whistled,  and  we  were  off  again.  The  man  swung 
into  his  saddle,  the  horse  bolting  with  him  across  the  desert. 
We  saw  him  rein  him  in  and  turn  in  his  saddle  to  wave  his  hal 
at  the  train.     Helen  fluttered  her  handkerchief  out  the  window, 

"Couldn't  we  take  a  Western  pony  back  with  us,  Ted?  I 
think  we  can  almost  afford  it." 

"If  you  want  one,  dear." 

"I'd  make  a  sensation  on  a  horse  like  that  af  a  meet  of  the 
Old  Berkeley  East  hounds." 

"I  think  his  carelessness  with  his  forefeet  would  bar  him 
out,"  I  replied. 

California  at  last.     The  train  climbed  over  a  range  of  the 


WE   HEAR   SENTENCE  281 

curious  mountains',  and  then  coasted  down  into  a  wide,  flat 
plain  set  with  groves  of  trees. 

"Orange  trees,  Ted!"  Helen  exclaimed. 

"Something  like  the  Riviera,"  I  said,  a  bit  doubtfully.  I 
wasn't  quite  certain  this  country  was  what  we  had  expected. 
We  looked  anxiously  at  the  towns,  to  see  what  they  were  like. 
I  think  each  of  us  had  a  little  the  feeling  we  were  making  the 
best  of  what  we  saw  for  the  others'  benefit.  The  towns  were 
— well,  still  like  other  Western  small  towns.  The  main  streets 
were  a  hodge-podge  of  rural-looking  shops.  From  a  train 
they  were  not  attractive. 

"Of  course,"  I  said,  "Los  Angeles  is  a  large  city  with 
magnificent  suburbs — we  mustn't  expect  the  fruit-growing  sec- 
tions to  be  very  home-like." 

"I  wonder,  Ted?     Suppose  we  don't  like  it  here?" 

"Nonsense,"  I  answered  stoutly.  "Think  of  all  the  fine 
things  we  have  heard  about  California." 

It  was  dusk  when  the  train  arrived  at  Los-  Angeles.  The 
hotel  reassured  us,  for  it  was  comfortable,  and  we  were 
pleasantly  received.  In  the  morning  I  was  to  begin  my  search 
for  a  bungalow — one  right  out  on  the  desert,  if  there  were  such 
things  here  as  desert  bungalows.  I  went  to  bed  with  a  shade 
of  anxiety  concerning  the  recommendation  of  the  London 
doctor.  I  had  seen  nothing  yet  to  make  me  think  this  a 
particularly  good  place  for  an  invalid. 

A  house  agent  took  me  in  tow  in  the  morning.  We  went 
first  to  Pasadena,  a  beautiful  place,  as  I  admitted  to  the  agent, 
but  far  too  town-like  and  civilized  for  our  purposes.  The 
agent  had  much  to  say  about  the  Calif ornian  climate;  I  had 
quite  a  fund  of  information  on  this  subject  before  I  had  done 
with  him.  I  forget  now  his  statistics:  the  number  of  days  of 
sunshine,  the  number  of  inches  of  rain,  the  number  of  cool 
nights  in  summer.  I  likewise  have  forgotten  his  commercial 
statistics  concerning  the  thousands  of  carloads  of  oranges — 
"citrus  fruits,"  I  believe  he  called  oranges  and  lemons. 

From  time  to  time  I  reminded  him  that  I  was  looking  for  a 
bungalow.     This  was  necessary,  for  he  preferred  to  talk  of 


282  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

California  at  the  expense  of  facts  nearer  home.  "It's  the 
garden  spot  of  the  world,"  he  exclaimed  ecstatically  from  time 
to  time — "the  sun-kissed  valleys  of  California." 

"What  I  am  looking  for  is  a  sun-kissed  bungalow  in  your 
garden  spot,  old  thing,"  I  remarked  about  two  o'clock.  "We 
haven't  found  one  yet." 

He  pulled  himself  together,  and  we  followed  another  clue 
out  in  Altadena.  As  we  neared  the  great  range  of  the  Sierra 
Madre  mountains,  I  felt,  as  children  say,  we  were  "getting 
warm."  They  towered  crisp  and  clear,  like  theatrical  scenery, 
and  their  lower  slopes  lay  pleasantly  exposed  to  the  sun. 
The  agent  protested  that  I  would  find  it  unpleasant  to  live  so 
far  out. 

"What  is  one  near,  if  one  lives  further  in?"  I  asked,  not  un- 
kindly. 

I  was  almost  ready  to  return  to  Los  Angeles  with  the  resolve 
of  seeking  another  agent  on  the  next  day,  when  we  really  came 
across  a  charming  little  bungalow  standing  all  by  itself  on  ir- 
rigated land.  The  agent  was  contemptuous;  the  locality  was 
not  fashionable;  he  had  many  other  objections.  Overhead 
the  mountains  fairly  hung  upon  us.  All  around  was  open 
land,  unbuilt  upon.  The  house  itself  was  new,  comfortable, 
and  of  the  right  size.  To  the  agent's  disgust  and  the  land- 
lord's amazement,  I  paid  a  month's  rent  in  advance,  upon  the 
spot,  and  with  my  own  hands  took  down  the  "For  Rent"  sign. 

One  difficulty  developed  at  the  last  moment. 

*Your  wife  isn't  a  lunger,  is  she?"  the  landlord  inquired. 

"A  what?"  I  asked. 

^Lunger.  Has  she  got  T.  B.?  Because,  if  she  has,  I  don't 
want  her  in  no  house  of  mine.  Can't  rent  a  bungalow  out  here 
after  any  one  has  died  of  tuberculosis  in  it." 

"My  wife  is  only  slightly  ill." 

"They  all  say  that,"  remarked  the  landlord. 

"Will  you  let  me  have  it  for  more  rent?" 

"No — but  I'll  sell  it,  young  man." 

We  dickered  a  while  and  at  last  struck  a  bargain.  I  could 
not  draw  from  the  agent  any  opinion  concerning  a  fair  price. 


WE   HEAR   SENTENCE  283 

I  had  to  trust  to  luck  that  I  wasn't  being  unreasonably  cheated. 
It  was  a  top  price,  I  knew,  but  Helen  could  not  stay  in  a  hotel 
in  Los  Angeles.  A  sum  down,  including  a  check,  served  to 
clinch  the  bargain.  There  remained  only  to  buy  some  cottage 
furniture  and  install  it. 

On  the  way  back  the  agent  tried  to  hold  me  up  for  a  com- 
mission. 

"You'll  collect  your  commission  from  your  friend,  the  land- 
lord," I  replied  firmly.     We  let  it  go  at  that. 

Three  days  later  I  got  enough  furniture  into  the  place  to 
enable  us  to  move  in.  My  three  days  of  preparation  involved 
a  great  deal  of  strenuous  urging.  But  it  was  done  at  last,  even 
to  a  floored  tent  behind  the  bungalow  for  Helen  and  me  to 
sleep  in.  We  had  likewise  a  cook,  a  protesting  coloured 
woman  from  Texas,  who  swore  many  strange  oaths  that  she  had 
never  seen  any  one  in  such  a  mighty  hurry  as  I  was.  A  special 
bribe  got  her  from  under  the  nose  of  some  *f  Pasadena's  elite 
who  were  besieging  the  employment  agency. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Miss  Brock  and  I  carried 
Helen  from  the  carriage  to  a  long  chair  on  the  verandah  and 
propped  her  up  with  pillows.  The  baby  had  already  begun  to 
play  about  the  bungalow.  Inside  we  could  hear  the  cook  talk- 
ing to  her  pots  and  pans  as  if  they  were  sentient  beings  in 
league  against  her.  By  the  verandah  stood  two  orange  trees 
in  blossom.  The  breeze  stirred  slightly  in  their  branches,  car- 
rying a  whiff  of  their  sweet,  sickly  scent  to  my  nostrils.  I 
started  with  a  shudder,  for  I  remembered  how  I  had  always 
hated  the  scent  of  orange  blossoms  from  the  time  I  first  met 
the  flower  girl  under  the  archway  of  Glaring  Cross  station. 
Could  this  be  why  I  disliked  that  odour?  Was  I  to  learn  the 
reason  at  last?  Helen  was  holding  my  hand,  resting  quietly, 
for  the  journey  had  tired  her.  I  saw  her  look  at  the  mountains 
and  from  them  to  her  baby  at  play. 

"Ted,"  she  said,  so  faintly  I  had  to  lean  forward  to  hear, 
"I  want  to  go  home — to  our  own  little  house  in  Hertfordshire. 
Take  me  back,  Ted.     I'm  homesick." 


Chapter    Seventeen 
we    stand    at    the    cross-roads 

THE  next  day  we  procured  a  specialist  from  Los  Angeles  to 
come  out  and  examine  Helen.  He  was  an  elderly  man 
with  white  hair  and  whiskers',  together  with  what  I 
thought  were  objectionably  brusque  manners.  I  was  partly 
reassured  by  the  speed  and  skill  with  which  he  worked — "the 
old  devil  is  efficient  for  all  his  rudeness,"  I  thought.  I  had  a 
documentary  history  of  the  case,  prepared  by  our  doctor  in 
London.  This  I  gave  him.  He  stuffed  it  into  his  pocket 
without  so  much  as  glancing  at  it.  He  spoke  sharply  once  or 
twice  to  Miss  Brock  because  that  young  woman  did  not  move 
quickly  enough  to  suit  him.  To  Helen  he  said  almost  nothing 
beyond  asking  a  half  dozen  brief  questions.  When  he  had 
finished — he  was  about  an  hour  at  it,  all  told — he  turned  to  me 
and  said:  "Come  to  my  office  to-morrow,  Mister — let's  see, 
what  is  your  name?  ah,  yes,  Jevons" — (consulting  his  note- 
book). "I'll  give  you  my  opinion  of  your  wife's  case  then. 
Here's  the  card  of  a  local  doctor — a  good  man.  Use  him. 
I'll  come  out  again,  if  you  wish  or  your  doctor  sends  for  me. 
Good  morning."  He  was  off  without  waiting  for  further 
reply. 

"Ted,  he's  a  beast,"  Helen  exclaimed.  "Don't  let  him  near 
me." 

I  tried  to  explain  that  a  great  scientist  and  expert  perhaps 
lost,  in  time,  some  of  his  human  touch.  His  reputation  we 
knew  to  be  supreme  in  his  field;  it  was  best  to  take  him  as 
we  found  him. 

"I  shan't  worry  about  his  manners,  sweetheart,  while  he 
is  curing  you,"  I  concluded. 

I  went  in  to  Los  Angeles  the  next  morning  to  call  at  the  doc- 

284 


WE  STAND  AT  THE  CROSS-ROADS   285 

tor's  office.  The  waiting  room  was  full  of  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  men  and  women,  seated  on  chairs  around  the  four 
walls.  I  stood,  for  there  were  no  more  empty  chairs.  A 
young  lady,  the  doctor's  secretary,  took  my  card  and  laid  it 
on  her  desk. 

"The  doctor  is  engaged  just  now,"  she  said.  More  arrived, 
but  none  was  shown  into  the  doctor's  office.  I  stood,  my  heart 
keating  wildly,  almost  frenzied  by  the  delay.  The  door 
opened,  and  the  old  physician  looked  into  his  waiting  room. 
He  beckoned  to  a  lady  in  a  far  corner.  She  arose  and  went 
toward  him.     In  my  anxiety,  I  forgot  all  etiquette. 

"Doctor!"  I  pleaded.     "One  moment." 

"What  is  it?"  he  turned,  vexed.  "Can't  you  wait  your 
turn?" 

"Just  a  word  and  then  I'll  wait  all  day,  if  necessary." 

"Well?" 

"My  wife — you  examined  her  yesterday — can  you  tell 
me — ?"  I  stumbled  over  my  words. 

"Let's  see — what  name?" 

"Mrs.  Jevons,"  I  answered. 

"Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Jevons — that  case."  He  spoke  in  a  loud 
tone  of  voice.     All  the  waiting  room  was  listening. 

"There's  absolutely  no  hope,  Mr.  Jevons.  I  don't  think  she 
will  live  three  months.     Good  morning." 

"No — no — hope!  Doctor!"  I  knew  my  voice  was  break- 
ing, and  I  could  feel  the  eyes  of  all  those  sitting  there  upon 
me. 

"You  came  too  late,"  he  said.  "What's  the  use  of  coming 
out  here  with  a  case  in  its  last  stages?     There's  no  hope." 

He  went  into  his  room,  followed  by  the  woman  patient,  and 
banged  the  door.  I  stood  stunned,  dazed,  so  weak  I  did  not 
trust  myself  to  take  a  step;  and  still  the  eyes  from  all  around 
the  room  stared  at  me.  "You  God  damned  brute!"  I  muttered 
under  my  breath,  "God  damn  your  dirty  soul!"  and  staggered 
toward  the  doctor's  closed  door.  Then  I  paused.  "After  all," 
I  thought,  "why  should  we  matter  to  him?"  A  great  rage 
against  the  others  sitting  there  seized  me.     Had  they  no  decency 


286  I   WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

to  stare  at  me  like  that?  I  stiffened.  "I  won't  give  them  any 
more  show  for  their  money,  the  loathsome  hounds,"  and  I 
went  to  the  secretary's  desk  to  pay  the  fee.  I  was  surprised 
to  note  that  I  counted  out  the  bills  with  a  steady  hand.  She 
handed  me  a  receipt. 

"I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Jevons,"  she  said,  so  the  others  could  not 
hear. 

I  looked  at  her  blankly  a  moment.     "Thank  you." 

In  the  street  I  had  to  lean  against  the  wall  of  an  office  build- 
ing for  a  time,  for  there  was  no  strength  in  my  legs.  A  police- 
man came  from  the  centre  of  the  street. 

"What's  the  matter,  young  fellow?     Sick?" 

"Just  a  momentary  faintness,"  I  answered.  "I'm  all  right, 
really." 

"Well,  go  in  there  and  get  yourself  a  drink." 

I  saw  him  pointing  with  his  club  at  a  nearby  cafe.  I  got 
there  somehow  and  sat  down  at  a  little  table. 

"What's  yours,  bud?"  the  bartender  called  with  a  great 
assumption  of  joviality. 

"A  glass  of  sherry,"  I  gasped.  He  brought  it  and  set  it 
before  me.     I  saw  him  preparing  for  a  pleasant  chat. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  I  said,  "but  would  you  mind  not  talking 
to  me?     I — I've  got  some  business  to  think  out." 

"Oh,  have  it  your  own  way,"  he  replied,  deeply  offended, 
and  returned  behind  his  bar. 

There  was  just  one  problem  in  my  mind.  What  was  I  to 
say  to  Helen?  Should  I  tell  her  the  truth?  Ought  I  to  tell 
her?  Three  months,  or  less,  the  doctor  had  said.  Could  I 
make  her  happy  for  those  three  months?  Was  that  not  better 
than  telling  her?  But  would  she  guess?  Could  I  keep  it 
from  her?  Should  I  be  able  to  play  my  part?  Back  and 
forth  these  questions  raced  in  my  mind.  No  answer  came,  for 
either  choice  seemed  wrong.  Helen  and  I  did  not  lie  to  each 
other.  But  this  was  a  different  kind  of  lie  from  any  mere 
vulgar  deception.     Had  she  the  right  to  know? 

"Say,  if  you're  going  to  sit  there  all  day,  how  about  a  little 
action?" — this  from  the  bartender. 


WE  STAND  AT  THE  CROSS-ROADS   287 

"Oh,  hell,"  I  exclaimed,  "bring  me  anything  you  like — or 
have  it  yourself  on  me." 

"Thanks,  I'll  take  half  a  dozen  cigars,"  he  said,  rattling  a 
box.  "Damned  if  you  aren't  a  queer  guy.  From  the  East,  I 
guess." 

'Tes — but  please  do  me  the  favour  to  keep  still." 

"I'm  not  trying  to  butt  in  on  nobody,"  he  muttered,  ag- 
grieved again.  "And  I'm  good  enough  to  talk  to  any  stuck-up 
Eastern  guy  that  comes  along." 

As  I  disappointed  him  by  ignoring  this  last  remark,  he  took 
refuge  in  polishing  glasses.  I  was  conscious  of  a  distant 
rumbling  inside  him  from  time  to  time.  But  I  did  not  dare 
go  back  to  Helen  until  I  had  got  control  of  myself  again.  Fur- 
thermore, I  must  make  up  my  mind  about  what  I  was  to  tell 
her.  There  seemed  no  way  in  which  I  could  force  my  thoughts 
into  an  orderly  arrangement.  Little  glimpses  of  our  life  to- 
gether— of  all  we  had  done  and  planned  in  the  last  four  years 
■ — kept  interposing  themselves  between  me  and  the  present. 
"Helen — Helen — my  Helen — my  wife,"  was  ceaselessly  echoing 
inside  my  head.  Finally  a  resolve  came  to  me.  "I  can't  tell 
her,"  I  said  to  myself — "right  or  wrong,  I  can't." 

I  went  to  the  telegraph  office  and  sent  a  message  to  Mr.  Clay- 
bourne.  Then  I  took  the  long  journey  back  to  our  bungalow. 
Helen  was  sitting  on  the  verandah  when  I  got  there,  the  baby 
riding  a  hobby-horse  near  her,  and  Miss  Brock  reading  aloud. 
Helen's  face  was  thin  now,  but  she  had  lost  none  of  her  delicate 
beauty.     I  went  up  to  her  and  kissed  her. 

"What  did  the  doctor  say,  Ted  dear?  How  long  you  have 
been." 

"He  says  it  is  all  right,  sweetheart.  I  am  bringing  good 
news."     I  wondered  that  the  lie  did  not  choke  me. 

"Honour  bright,  Ted?"  she  exclaimed,  her  eyes  lighting  up. 
Jt  was  our  one  oath  of  truthfulness  that  she  demanded  of  me. 
Never  before  had  I  violated  it. 

"Honour  bright,  Helen  precious." 

"Ted,  isn't  it  glorious!  I  feel  better  already.  Will  it  be 
in  June?" 


288  I   WALKED   IN   ARDEN 

I  kneeled  in  front  of  her  chair  and  hid  my  face  in  her  lap. 
"Why,  Ted!  I  believe  you  are  crying!" 
I  clung  to  her  hand. 

"Dear  old  boy,  Ted.  I  love  you,"  she  leaned  over  me  and 
whispered. 

The  local  practitioner  confirmed  the  opinion  of  Dr.  Kreh- 
stadt,  the  specialist.  He  and  I,  with  Miss  Brock,  held  a 
council -of -war  while  Helen  was  taking  her  afternoon  nap 
next  day. 

"Why  in  the  name  of  heaven  did  the  doctors  in  London  and 
New  York  talk  so  optimistically  to  us?"  I  asked  him,  for  he 
was  a  pleasant-spoken  young  man  with  friendly  blue  eyes. 
He  shrugged. 

"'Perhaps,"  he  hazarded,  "they  thought  it  important  to  keep 
your  courage  up.  Or  it  is  possible" — and  he  hesitated — "I 
hate  to  say  this  of  my  colleagues — yet  it  may  be  they  wished  to 
pass  you  along.  I  don't  say  it  was  the  reason  in  your  case, 
Mr.  Jevons,  but  I  have  known  it  to  have  been  done  with  other 
tubercular  cases  sent  out  here." 

"What  have  you  thought,  Miss  Brock?"  I  turned  to  the 
trained  nurse.  She  was  a  level-headed,  taciturn  person,  with 
a  quiet  way  of  always  doing  her  work  exactly  as  expected  of 
her.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  me  I  had  not  asked  her  opinion 
before. 

"I  have  had  a  good  deal  of  experience  with  tuberculosis 
patients,  Mr.  Jevons.  I  confess  I  have  been  worried  about 
Mrs.  Jevons  since  I  first  came  into  the  case." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Well,  Mr.  Jevons — I'm  not  a  doctor.  It's  not  my  business 
to  offer  opinions  or  to  make  a  diagnosis.  Besides,  Mr.  Jevons 
— seeing  you  with  Mrs.  Jevons  every  day,  who  could  tell  you? 
I've  seen  a  lot  of  death  and  suffering  in  my  hospital  work — I 
thought  I  was  callous.     I  guess  I'm  not." 

A  grey  cloud  caught  on  the  summit  of  one  of  the  mountains 
and  spread  along  below  the  topmost  ridge.  I  watched  it 
slowly  blotting  out  the  crest  of  the  range. 


WE  STAND  AT  THE  CROSS-ROADS   289 

"Do  you  object  if  I  smoke?"  the  doctor  inquired. 

"No — pray  do,"  I  said.  I  felt  tired,  old — as  if  youth 
had  suddenly  left  me.  Miss  Brock  got  up  and  went  into  the 
house. 

"Doctor,"  I  pleaded  again.  "Is  there  anything  we  can  try 
— however  new  or  experimental — whatever  the  risk,  as  long  as 
it  offers  just  one  chance — one?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  know  of  nothing,  Mr.  Jevons,  that 
will  cause  new  lung  tissue  to  grow." 

I  knew  my  question  was  hopeless;  I  had  read  the  best 
medical  works  on  tuberculosis  since  this  had  come  to  Helen,  but 
one  struggles  for  a  gleam  of  hope  to  the  end. 

"She  has  had  no  pain — or  very  little;  no  haemorrhages. 
That,  too,  misled  us." 

"There  are  many  cases  like  your  wife's,"  the  doctor  said. 
"Simply  a  gradual  wasting  away  and  loss  of  strength." 

"I  can't  reason  it  out,  doctor.     It  isn't  fair." 

He  shifted  in  his  chair,  knocking  the  ash  from  his  cigar. 

"If  you  were  a  doctor,  Mr.  Jevons,  you  would  come  across 
a  lot  of  things  you  couldn't  reason  out — that  aren't  fair.  But 
they  happen." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  "I  suppose,  like  everybody,  we  think  our 
own  case  the  only  important  one  in  the  world.  But  it  does  not 
make  it  any  easier  to  know  there  are  others  suffering  as  we 
suffer.  I  am  not  fond  of  seeking  that  kind  of  sympathy.  I 
say  it's  a  damned  unfair  thing  all  round." 

"I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Jevons,  that  Nature  cares  nothing  for  the 
individual." 

The  doctor  threw  away  his  cigar  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I'll  look  in  every  day,  Mr.  Jevons — but  there  isn't  much 
I  can  do." 

"How  long?"  I  faltered,  as  he  went  toward  his  horse  and 
buggy. 

"It's  hard  to  say — something  depends,  of  course,  on  her 
natural  vitality."  He  stood,  choosing  words.  "I  don't  be- 
lieve you  will  lose  her  until  after  Christmas." 

The  word  rang  in  my  head,  as  I  watched  him  drive  away. 


290  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

How  many  Christmas  days  had  we  planned,  years  ago  in 
Deep  Harbor?     And  now — I  could  think  no  longer. 

Miss  Brock  appeared  in  the  door.  "Mrs.  Jevons  is  awake. 
She  wants  to  see  you." 

"Pm  coming."  My  Helen — my  Helen — I  could  feel  the 
blood  beating  against  my  temples  on  the  way  to  her  tent. 

November,  the  beginning  of  December — I  checked  the  days 
off.  Helen  could  not  stir  from  her  chair  now — the  dark  cir- 
cles were  deepening  under  the  grey  eyes — the  cheeks  that 
once  glowed  on  horseback  in  the  winter  fields  of  Hertford- 
shire were  white  and  drawn  in  the  warm  California  sunshine. 

It  was  pain,  agony,  to  look  at  her,  and  yet  I  laughed  and 
joked  with  her,  between  our  love-making,  as  we  had  always 
done.  For,  strangest  thing  of  all,  Helen  thought  she  was 
getting  better.  The  first  day  she  discovered  that  walking  was 
too  great  an  effort,  I  was  terror-stricken,  thinking,  "Now  she 
will  guess."  But  no,  she  attributed  it  merely  to  some  passing 
phase — to  being  overtired — and  her  gentle  good  humour  and 
faith  were  as  steadfast  as  ever.  She  noticed  that  she  coughed 
more,  and  that  the  coughing  spells  left  her  exhausted.  Never- 
theless she  attributed  even  that  to  the  normal  progress  of  the 
disease  toward  its  cure.  Thus  each  day  made  it  more  certain 
than  ever  that  I  could  not  tell  her  the  truth. 

There  were  many  nights  that  I  lay  awake  in  our  tent,  be- 
side Helen,  and  fought  this  question  over  again  and  again. 
To  this  day  I  have  not  found  the  answer.  Would  she  have 
more  directions  to  give  me  about  the  baby,  if  she  knew,  I 
wondered?  and  several  times  this  thought  nearly  forced  me  to 
speak.  Would  it  be  right  to  let  her  leave  her  baby  without  a 
word  about  her  future?  Then,  when  morning  came,  Helen 
would  talk  to  me  about  going  home  in  June,  or  make  plans  for 
doing  something  to  our  house  in  Hertfordshire,  and  I  could  not 
speak. 

Christmas  day  came,  after  great  preparations  on  our  part 
to  observe  it  as  we  always  had.  There  was  a  tree  for  the  baby, 
and  I  ransacked  Los  Angeles  for  things  to  please  Helen,  or 


WE  STAND  AT  THE  CROSS-ROADS   291 

other  trifles  to  make  her  laugh.  The  coloured  genius  of  the 
kitchen  cooked  a  marvellous  turkey.  We  had  a  plum  pudding 
all  the  way  from  England.  Dinner  was  served  on  a  little  table 
before  Helen's  tent.  Miss  Brock  allowed  Helen  to  eat  some 
of  the  white  meat  of  the  turkey.  Hand  in  hand  Helen  and  I 
sat  watching  the  baby's  joy  in  her  heap  of  new  toys. 

"Our  Christmas,  Ted.  It's  our  day,"  Helen  whispered,  her 
cheek  against  mine — her  old  trick  when  she  was  happy  or 
pleased.     "Do  look  at  baby,  Ted.     Isn't  she  a  darling?" 

"Mummy  dear,  Santa  Claus  brought  me  a  real  paint-box,  an' 
brushes,  an'  pencils,  an'  paper,  an'  a  book  to  paint  in." 

"Isn't  that  wonderful!     Show  mummy  all  your  presents." 

Baby  began  bringing  them  up,  one  by  one,  laying  them  in 
rows  at  her  mother's  feet.  A  telegraph  boy  arrived.  I 
snatched  the  message  from  him.  I  had  wired  Mr.  Claybourne 
a  day  or  two  before  that  time  was  nearly  up.  He  had  foreseen 
that  Helen  might  read  it. 

"Coming  with  mother  for  a  Christmas  visit.  We  leave 
tomorrow.     Love  to  you  three."     I  showed  it  to  Helen. 

"How  nice  of  dad,  Ted!  I'm  so  glad  he's  going  to  take  a 
holiday.     Why  didn't  they  plan  to  be  here  today?" 

Soon  after,  she  went  to  sleep,  and  I  sat  at  her  feet,  thinking 
of  Christmas.  At  five  the  doctor  dropped  in.  I  saw  Miss 
Brock  talking  aside  with  him  by  his  buggy. 

"Don't  wake  her  yet,"  he  said,  and  led  me  around  to  the  front 
verandah.     I  knew  what  he  meant. 

"It  may  be  tonight  or  tomorrow,  Mr.  Jevons,"  he  began,  as 
he  took  his  chair.  "Miss  Brock  reports  that  she  has  grown 
markedly  weaker  in  the  last  twenty-four  hours.  The  excite- 
ment of  Christmas  was  not  good  for  her,  but  I  did  not  want  to 
deprive  her  of  that  pleasure.  I  can  stay,  if  you  wish  it.  There 
is  nothing,  however,  that  I  can  do.  Miss  Brock  is  most  com- 
petent.    I  shall  be  within  call,  in  any  event." 

"Her  father  and  mother  are  leaving  Deep  Harbor  to-mor- 
row." 

"They  will  be  too  late."  He  said  it  quite  gently,  laying  his 
hand  upon  my  knee.     I  could  see  him  watching  me  narrowly. 


292  I  WALKED   IN  ARDEN 

"Go  back  to  her,  my  boy.  I  mustn't  keep  you."  He  got  up 
and  walked  down  the  steps. 

In  the  tent  I  found  Helen  just  waking  up. 

"It  was — a — beautiful — Christmas — Ted.  Why — Ted — I'm 
awfully — weak." 

I  gave  her  a  sip  of  brandy;  the  doctor  had  authorized  it. 
Miss  Brock  came  to  the  tent. 

"Will  you  leave  us  please?"  I  asked.  "Stay  within  call 
with  the  baby." 

Helen  was  dozing  again  and  did  not  hear  what  I  said.  I 
put  her  on  her  bed  and  slipped  off  her  dressing  gown,  tucking 
her  in  for  the  night.  The  sun  was  just  setting,  and  the  first 
chill  of  the  California  night  air  sent  shivers  through  me.  I 
put  on  a  heavy  overcoat  and  set  my  chair  beside  her  bed  to 
wait. 

All  night  I  sat  there,  holding  one  of  her  hands.  Now  and 
then  Miss  Brock,  with  a  flash-lamp,  came  out  from  the  bun- 
galow. I  sent  her  back  each  time.  Helen  seemed  to  sleep 
quite  peacefully.  Only  once  did  a  fit  of  coughing  rouse  her. 
It  was  about  seven  when  she  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled  at  me. 

"I  think  I'll  be  able  to  get  up  today,  Ted,"  she  said,  so 
faintly,  yet  distinctly.  I  kissed  her.  She  gave  me  her  hand  to 
hold.  As  she  lay  there  looking  at  me  with  her  grey  eyes,  I 
saw  the  expression  in  them  change.  Something  had  come  into 
them  that  I  did  not  know. 

"Miss  Brock!"  I  called. 

She  stepped  in  instantly. 

"Bring  the  baby  here,  will  you?  Then  take  her  away 
again."     Miss  Brock  quickly  returned  with  little  Helen. 

"Good   morning,  mummy   dear,"   she  said. 

"Helen — the  baby — to  say  good  morning,"  I  whispered  in 
her  ear.  Helen  opened  her  eyes,  looking  at  me  a  little 
puzzled.  The  strange  expression  was  still  there.  Slowly  she 
turned  her  head  and  looked  at  the  baby. 

"Good   morning,  baby — precious." 

I  signed  to  Miss  Brock,  who  took  the  child  away.  For  a 
long  time  yet  I  sat,  holding  Helen's  hand.     She  dozed;   and 


WE    STAND  AT  THE  CROSS-ROADS       293 

again  her  eyes  would  open,  with  the  faintest  flicker  of  her  smile 
upon  her  lips  as  she  saw  me  by  her.  Then  she  opened  her 
eyes  once,  and  I  saw  she  no  longer  knew  me. 

"Helen — my  Helen  girl — it's  Ted — your  Ted,"  I  whispered 
frantically.  She  gave  no  sign — but  slowly,  ever  so  slowly,  the 
eyes  glazed.  Her  hand  was  still  in  mine  when  I  knew  the  end 
had  come.  I  looked  at  my  watch  on  the  camp  table.  Twenty 
minutes  to  eleven. 

I  got  to  my  feet,  gently  laying  the  hand  I  had  held  on  her 
breast.  I  stooped  and  kissed  her  lips.  From  the  door  of  the 
tent  I  looked  back  again.  She  was  beautiful.  I  faced  the 
breeze  and  the  dazzling  sunshine  without.  A  heavy  scent  of 
orange-blossoms  was  in  the  air. 

I  walked  into  the  living  room  of  the  bungalow.  Miss  Brock 
sprang  to  her  feet  when  she  saw  me  come  in.  She  gave  me  one 
look  and  dashed  for  the  tent.  I  sat  down  before  the  empty 
fire  place.  Little  baby  Helen  ran  to  me  and  climbed  into  my 
lap.  A  pair  of  grey  eyes  looked  up  smiling  at  me.  I  think 
that  saved  me.  .  .  . 


EPILOGUE 

Christmas  Eve,  1918 

"Daddy?" 

"Yes,  my  daughter?" 

"Think,  daddy,  think!" 

"My  dear,  I  will— if  you'll  tell  me  what." 

^Tomorrow  is  Christmas — the  first  peace  Christmas." 

"I  know." 

"And  daddy!" 

"Well?" 

"In  the  spring  I  shall  be  eighteen." 

I  looked  at  a  tall  girl,  her  cheeks  aglow  with  the  frosty 
crimson  which  only  English  winter  days  can  bring.  In  her 
hand  was  a  riding  crop,  and  her  riding  habit  sat  trim  upon  her. 
But  it  was  her  grey  eyes  sparkling  fun,  and  a  certain  trick  of 
her  smile  that  struck  me  most.  Eyes  and  smile  alike  had 
come  straight  to  her  from  her  mother.  "Eighteen,"  I  thought 
to  myself — "her  mother's  age  when  I  first  met  her.  Was  she 
then  a  laughing  child — a  baby  like  this?" 

"Come  sit  by  your  daddy  tonight,  Helen,"  I  said.  She 
flung  herself  impulsively  on  a  cushion  at  my  feet,  her  head 
against  my  knee. 

"Make  me  comfy." 

I  drew  her  closer  to  me. 

VI  had  the  most  glorious  ride,  today,  dad.  All  through 
the  bridle  paths  past  Aldenham  and  back  by  King's  Langley." 

"There  are  no  lanes  like  our  Hertfordshire  ones,  little  girl." 

"I  feel  as  if  I  were  alive  again,  daddy,  now  the  war  is  over." 

We  sat  looking  at  the  fire  together — our  thoughts,  I  knew, 
as  far  apart  as  the  poles.  Our  love  was  the  common  bond. 
Deep   Harbor — other   Christmas  days  in  England — and  that 

294 


EPILOGUE  295 

last  terrible  Christmas  day  of  all — out  in  California — these  and 
many  other  things  I  saw  in  the  firelight, 

"And  what  are  you  thinking  of,  Helen?" 

Grey  eyes  looked  up  at  me,  smiling  a  little  shyly. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  want  for  Christmas,  dad?" 

"Another  bull-terrier,  dear — or  a  new  saddle?" 

She  shook  her  head  vigorously. 

"So  wrong,  daddy.     Shall  I  tell  you?" 

"Please  do." 

*You  promised  once- — when  I  should  be  old  enough  to  under- 
stand— to  tell  me  the  whole  story  of  you  and — mummy  dear. 
1*11  soon  be  eighteen.  Won't  you  tell  me  this  story  for  my 
best  Christmas  present?" 

I  bent  over  and  kissed  her. 

'Tes,   dear.     I'll  tell  you.    Listen,   little  girl—"  .  .  . 


IB  32465 


